Monday, 8 July 2013


Clouds, like bruised rose petals, hush your half closed eyes. The revolution will not be mimetic. In the apartment below they continually take up floorboards & excavate walls. On the street anacondas continue their aerobics class. My bones turn to warm summer rain, my skin to the perceptions of brilliant ruby insects. The problem, then, is to find an interpretation of the concept of transcendental object that avoids identifying it with the thing in itself. Evidence of early human settlement, rank odour of immortality. Igor hurls a Frisbee for one eager barking dog to fetch & saliva dripping / your eyes now fully shut. We pull into a small town called America. Laissons fuir la nerveuse. Styrofoam coffe cup so large the entire family climbs inside & their voices echo from some burnt out TV screen gawping at a pigeon as it clumsily, heavily, levitates into a blast of angel machine gun fire, full sory for hys maledye and hys myssease. 

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