Convicted Nonsense

Serve with your hands, backs wet from wiping your nose. Go on serving when everyone has left, full plates, clean forks. Leave the tap running; ask God to shut it off.

All come from pressure, nausea, hæmorrhage. Turn the box and shake and what sticks in and what sticks out? All the sounds for what's in the bin are too common to be heard. ($37, please.)

A good swoon a good smother a good poison, none of them sweet, all of them wholesome. I will be restored. Tense up when I walk by; tense up when I stagger in.

Combing my beast verbs, chariot nose clang, arms brass, doorways and green dresses, bags of unwritten books. Nothing to fit, only this infinitive.

Conduct beyond help, Foley your company with a glass and some water. They told me it was late, and I believed they all were late. Pronoun confusion soaks into genre confusion; you thought you were a lover, but you don't know when the war is or what's worse, where.

The code's all here to save us from our wrong times; we're all wrong-timed and the code is wrong, unfortunate, fallen, lapsed. What a dreadful unclosed string. What a close-quote" broken jaw.

I've come here for a Reason, which is to snarl and get fucked and cry and bite about it, which is several things but altogether only one Reason. (Who likes the altogether? Some people maybe but not me.)

The Key was a Middlemarch pipe dream, but some of you wander the published and produced, trying all the doors. As if you had it in your strangers and your sons, you who were never strange and never pregnant. Walking out of doors in lonely hero hats.

Say your name as if it were Naëtt, and then say mine the same. We aren't; we should be so lucky. But still. But still. Cinnamon, eagles, the company of Nephertiti and Our Boy Frank.

Stand in the sun, be upright. Enjoy the hale, enjoy the hot and healthy. You are well. You are a rest for bees, you are butter, you are the saucer waiting painted for the fill.

Go on then. Wipe your face, take the page, lie and lie your wearisome scrunching.

Rabid and shining is the goal, the state is a state of vibration at a ragged wave, because you see we're not ready to be that over, and anyway could we really be so flat? Crashing but not crushed, is the idea, oriented by claws. All teeth bared, all throats bared, racing. Never catch me. Never take us alive; never dare to take me alive off the table.