A delight to be rural driving, with a dead dove stuck in
the windscreen wiper. Then in the midst of that to also be
buried alive, and then also mysteriously wind up on someone's
windscreen. In the universe, miniature– in barely
a metaphysical matchbox. In fear of the cannibalistic chest pain,
stalking this realm, sitting on this realm. Pecking?
The dead dove consisted of coiled slimy tubes five minutes
later. Strapped down by an inch of avian yeast tongue.
Rural walking, at that spot where a thumb blackened USB stick
is purported to haunt people – when suddenly comes
the warning “[to not] walk there.” What the fuck?
Of all things, a shape-shifting retina begins to waver in front
of the unfolding nightmare. The Atari console begins to
come off onto one's clothes. The steam-powered finger
begins to engage (per design) in excessive medical gouge-out.
These are therefore the things that tried to remain united
but after a small incident lay littered everywhere:
i.e. shredder and mint – ass and donkey -
checkbook and rubber band. This is the ice age's broken glass
and these are the industrial pajamas born of it.