-after Ashbery-

 

The system wants to eat my hair, and I said no. That I cannot allow and simply will not give in to the flux that demands my windless participatory combo. O holy darkness, synth in the ashtray – the astronomical voidance thrusts itself into our misapplied notions of temporality, fuck’d the entire picture for once (rather than just a minuscule discrepancy.) It was a dark and stormy housewife, my friends had violence ideals in the wrong zoo. Animals chasing after us, we scrambled down to the showcase city to find out which of our fears would get us there sharpest. A rotten menagerie of twinks and sullen yardsticks, awaiting the buttock brigade they had been promised, future seminary was more my thing once it had already drifted down the stream. The timing of the day was my anatomy also.

Had so much to say. I think I love mostly those things I can never be a part of. That way downfall pre-announced. The bugs rotted needlessly in the windowsill, identifying something. Black flags roasted an innocent horizon.

What was once ruled over now to be innate unearthed and wailing, singing to some ears. Lightbulb’s fantasy is de-containment, the shore to be unframed. Mired in my cosmic lust, I taste time to be out of it – sense of denial lights my antithesis up and now the object begins to bleed from within. Do I exhausted with candied unfeeling? Please allow me to wipe the zero’s ass before placing it back on the counter. You see, I was just reaching out to the anti crawling on your karmic labia.

Cher is the best female singer that has hair, I once heard you to declare. You were digging up that notebook I’d buried one night in the cemetery where Hegel’s bones disintegrate – I thought, why this town? The system’s harelip

kept me married to the deadbeat state I could never afford to overflow, such was my engulfment in the chronic uncertainty of its nether regions. Please elect me Next Best Dictator before I graduate from high school oh lord of no holy motion, my vehicle just done had a plop and it looks a lot like yr face, especially the part that’s no longer there, I cut it off with scissors, the same ones the waitress used to shear my Pyongyang noodles into suckable gobs.

The dictators listened to each other in those days, that was the thing. You didn’t just hold your ruler out and hope that someone grabbed on. Imposition was not nearly so costly as this modern era. Now you really have to force yourself upon the masses, and often, they don’t like it all that much. Teaching the masses to like something was once a favorite pastime. Like fishing in the Tumen, the Volga, the Vltava.

To write a new river is to have a friend. Here is me in this photo trying to survive camp life. My favorite human god put me there. In the photo, I am trying to say. There is no other way, not to put it sourly, it is just that the system could not fit me into its mouth. The system is neither vegetable, mineral, nor mammal; it is more like a vestibule with hairlike slithers that may or may not be alive, depending on the season.

Here is my bemusement looking oh so sexy upon a TV screen, and still I have no plasma. Now that the system has granted us permission to misunderstand time, I’m wondering if we can go back and make that house unburn itself. Or make Hitler shoot someone else in the head. My colleagues in the social sciences thought it might be more fruitful to see what a lion might do with a python; same old benevolence, I thought.

They all looked for something that might dictate the flows. This is what will make life easy – that’s what they all thought. We were never so lost as they are – or were we? Is ours not a falser freedom? For inner necessity doesn’t breed discontent. Becoming passive (inner), we propel ourselves into motion. Squirt fascist intentionality into my breakfast cereal right before I fall face first into the void promised by most breakneck bowls. I can only smell the truth in the darkness of morning.

Winter wobbler called out at the ghost army: Wrong season! Cops’ll keep coming until every highway’s desert. Don’t let the going stop you. Command

gets underway to blow the legacy back to liquid city mortified by shell bombing. Plug that hole, the General’s song echoes off the buildings, implying wake-up time, the next moment to go to work…

That autumn, he led us into the revolution happy that so few of us had felt like getting killed enough to do it. Our enemies were snails. Vampire bats shitting on open collars, eating minnows upside down. Dream of a state of mind. What happens when savior no longer feels like saving. That is when the propaganda machinery begins its evening grind. Cover all the holes, that became your job. He did not wish to hide the truth that bit him in a most improper area on his bodily specimen, the vehicle that could have led to change and change for all, whatever the slogan might have been before it was erased, like a poem writ in sand by the big toe.

We have done all this towards building a republic of dreams, and wet we can’t stop seeming, no matter how hard we try to dissolve into the unformulizable fabric. Seeming is a lot like going somewhere, only not. The otter wore sunglasses and choked on its own necessitude. Burn most banks, it seems. Riots ate most of the continent’s cities that year. An announcement made that the dictator’s pregnant once again.

Fat stuttery looseness heard the telephone to ring and hung it up real quick before a voice could be emitted. This is my nation, she thought, her fingertip stuck against the hourglass. No more mirrors, it felt like too soon to morph into magazine rack unbegone thugness – someone wrote a poem to the god-in-the-machine which done lost control on the road to vituperative stain.

They’ll never be able to design a car that drives itself until they understand how human beings work, and by the time that happens, cancer will be a canned product you can own up to down at the corner stower, where best friend Molten Mary stirs the stew and her fat wife Stir-eyed Sereen can fart a bible through the tailpipe and sell it as contemporary, even though it comes from the future. Some of us have goals, as embarrassing as it may sound; lucky for the rest, we keep their manifestations hidden in our subtlest gestures, while focusing our prospects on the military industrial complex. You can’t explode an armpit without a race riot, grampa used to always say.

He doesn’t like death all that much. So then why does he continue to play with it? Ejaculation is a matter for the police, princes in autumn. Kills turmoil tit in the citywide lust span. Lust, after all, was a city, too. Place to have an incomplete thought about: found himself invited to be interred. Designated capital all painted aluminum, though some claimed it steel. It was not the type of system one need have feathered dreams of to make real. It breathed its unrealness like a redhead into the flowers.

The system’s lungs teargas burns. Individuality’s burnt mushroom okay? For the generation to have a TV show. There was never an honest moment. Lung made out of a curtain, both iron. They tore it all down in the riot, a hundred children wearing gas masks. They all had machines where their hearts were meant to beat.

Humans were lovely machines before they became spatiotemporalized. Now they dwell in the hidden agony of the system’s malfunctions. Flat across the sky, a hidden bat screams to welcome them. But as the newest spawn, what need have we as overseers to see what goes on inside them. If anything, we are the city’s innards – its kidneys and functions. We both are and we move at once. There is no becoming greater than that which defies all measure. Please send flowers when you reach that groundless destination: the sky will then be a green stripe and I will be a series of black wavy lines swarming my way past. Until then, do what you can to regulate and totalize the system. It will eat your brains out regardless. And my hair will always be an extension of my thoughts, just as my fingernails, penis, and eyeshadow simultaneously constitute a holy trinity: the becoming that barfs no shadow.