Moorings, halls absorbed our world.
Yet it stayed on faces, and crossed legs on settees, like a running joke.
Among euphemisms, we preferred
those that, becoming glacial and unreasonable
around lives, were like an old hat
climaxing upon a head: You couldn’t put it down—the city shown, or told.
I would touch it with a ten foot pole.
What did it look like, after your
life depended on it? Rain tumbling; a Socratic yawn—different
bodies of statistics, like pieces of trash. Eventually
puffed its. Thank god
we could begin as youths, shaping our faces in one
direction or another, out of the corners
of our disclosed eyes—yet somehow still cast
into the strict sense of somebody
else’s childhood…where we stay, same here, placed
on the side of no caution. Who are these
extreme literalizations of the future, walking, talking, crapping
laughter, falsifiable only
by still further exaggeration, their projections poor, tiny, and basically
unelectable? Yes. We seem to get it better as a downtown
than as a production of Jaws.
Will they marry me?
Proceed this way, slight shebang.
The chords state it well. The plot
is basically unchained. You can tell.
It does nothing
to keep the intruders out. The sun watches the desk.
Then the poor device begins to ring.
The senses warm, civilian in different places, tables of fruit.
We note a dysphoric blondness
being put into the sky, like a bell.
But hey. We make these things talk.
What shall we say we wanted?