The Wax Conspiracy

I'm so sorry for everything

Refreshments ensnare, -tangle, -mesh; loss of fidelity, baby. Granular to such a degree that there’s no telling what is detail and what is craquelure. You can below-radar those scars from start to finish, then zip back the targeting computer and pew pew that motherfucker. Or not.

Another night, another debrief – luminescent decay etched out on grid paper, baby. Graphite digs deeper on the excitation plane but falls apart on the dagger stroke. Slice it nice, the serratus posterior superior – gauze for meat pack, baby, units in the Gaussian.

Dodgy knees perspective - not that dog-named do-gooder, but the realist lalocheziast. Yeah, you know: the sort to take the side of ants over that of Leiningen, the sort to scoff when Cornelius – Ugh! – took a knee, the sort to expose flank and export talk of the rot for the strict of it.

Fast attack, slow decay: feedback vacuum tube loop, baby. Oscillate the rime and trigger a beacon for the mothership, baby. Twist them knobs and get to beaming off this cold earth already.

Eye roams like that of a letch, like an Altman camera tracing the [s]pace[-k] of 3 women. That Cold Day in the Park, baby, you looked like a spider, baby, all eight eyes looked right through me, baby.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Thursday, 22 May 2014

The Wax Conspiracy

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