Full
exposure is impossible. The tissue is eyeless.
A
rubber gimp chewing off a mind. Its receptivity
spreading
across the yard, gathering in the seals
around
the window. Starting to drip in.
A
plastic bag needs sincerely to gorge. You need
small
hands to gargle. In the future, you will not like snow.
Any
curse stems from heavier material. Some miracle mist
that
impedes city sewers. Displacing the warp, as death
intermittently
feels the urgent need to change.
Its
cues are not carried over from the front
of
the pitchfork to the rear. Hovering. Interstates transition
from
luxurious stitching to orange peel.
Rust:
that ancient precursor to the non-retractable pizza.
Ted
Bundy appears offset. Death turns too close
on
the same side of the road as that old armadillo. Both
know
that, per whim, one can feel synchronized.
One
can hover. Gargle. Gorge. Have small hands.
No
eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment