The Blob.

I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating gaping yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s a connection to the same eggy lights-out factory, an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up. Inside there’s little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying in the dark, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dawn to midday, they think: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into aqueous shimmer! One we’ve been party to. Party is a word. It felt so good to close down a wide sector of the critical imagination, ethos, and move nowhere collectively, a function of a huge leftist irony aggregation org.

That misspelling in brief is Fidelio, and from there I can move forward and back to connect times with ideas and people that encompass my naïve expertise.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam,
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

A big heart susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet the others halfway, slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know in the aftermath of a hiatus, letting it die down.

Smelling adages jazzes a decimal of our pablum.

Where should I hurt?

Once and be done. A few more



fix the climate really fast with glass and shining wands

like my nickel-coated lots of dick. 



A marionette’s defiance is as defensive



As ours but you feel tall and

inflatable as you cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

Ads before news of comfortable, determinant
Males gaining business insight by the numbers are
A given. Someday I’ll have a pomegranate thermostat;
It’s not torture unless it causes organ failure.

No shortcuts. Nope. The perverted best part was
how I occupied your emotional life, the highest in Japan.
The guardian part made this a better world with a splash
of blood on my shirt. It’s for you, Jack.

The composed freakout is in wide release. Filthy inside, one protagonist is making waves as an analyst for a nonprofit, deep money, fancy beer, soda.

Who is that high def doily legs in an itinerant color of childish poetry?

I’m expecting something. I’ve been expecting you. How much more if something happened?

A gaze from a subscriber who won’t consider
it’s such nice work, the jug
with its schema proliferating one fable
between acts of kindness, tragic themes
of incitements or was it just empty?

I’m still not finished, you pay.
We call soliloquy theoretical fado
since there’s no one else speaking.
The jug she’s extending is not audible —

it’s just a backstory in a way
sulking inside a thought of a room
with the hygienic view forward, a term
that cannot be considered in terms
until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

My Panker is home.

It ranks among the most beautiful in Holstein. Darkness fences the glow.

My Panker is a Kleinod from Episode Neun, only 3 km from the county seat Futterdorf.

Futterdork I don’t visit. Wax flowers are harsh, yet impassioned, so nowhere is low.

Borders and shading sharpen us Trakehners, as well over 1500 hectares of agricultural surface’re worked over.

Ducks flying down splash, flattened grey popping on mauve.

Horses, tho, you find steeds of Panker only. (Hammered light is accommodated on neighbouring properties, Schmelzbad zone, attaining sad celebrity in the last climate day burn.)

Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather far over, even Danemark, where many dreams lie.

In former times foresters got their Aufbesserungen along with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that, with foresters, with sailors the Hessen Stien grew.

The wind in tent flaps sounds. I am here.



Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.

Like dozens of others spin
ning into effect, I will never make chicken
soup for you, I never make
chicken soup but if you needed me
to I would.

You come before vegetarian salvation.
I will never make
that either.

Stunning, new chaps:

CALCINATIO by Kimberly Lyons
GOLD STARS WET HEARTS by John Godfrey
DON’T GO HOME WITH YOUR HEART ON by Alli Warren
ONE-LINERS by Vincent Katz
I HAD EVERY INTENTION by Michael Gottleib.

Covers by Tom Burckhardt. Read more:

http://www.fauxpress.com

To be disciplined on our new motion furniture
requires drill, “...comfort is a habit of empire.”
Start over. Abruptly
per Chronicles of Goo,
I’m knocking nonprofessionals
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing up!

A he-mind’s pill for breathing is long overdue.

And we’re back on one conjoined vertigo seat, now
reading and writing without an attorney.
“That’s how the paint sails” within taxonomies, overheated,
a mind occupied, just so, musks in the field and so forth.

The bus door was gone.

You’re friend is coming. You mean the theme costumes?

Wearing a wigless wig is my method and model.

When I hear topical shifts forward hidden risks it’s iterative, baroque: As if after
her death Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

Let’s find one thing to agree on.

I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, & like Coup, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt.

It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep..

Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee was just there when it was there, then took a variant position in summary terms of a sequence with only a few I could see up thru to the pleasantest valley. Police went wild one lane over, so I was arrested while asking myself, do

I understand profuse clouds are disassociated?

How is a partner shiny but then fallen with grey streaks?

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in smoke, flames sparks glow,

the red moon indispensable for smearing made light

that travels down in a tiered borderlike scrawl.

There’s an echo upstairs.
That guy was the 1st to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.
You disappear, and you have children and they disappear.
He was Vietnamese. Works for the post office.

Inner wresting? That word again.
It’s kind of an unbuttoned, squeegeed pain to wrest
a dishonest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity, where
it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states;

the tide appears to notarize something.

We came here to our senses to put up a hoax mailing.

Apologies to my mate.

So what if we both went thru the door leading to the rescue
of childhood? and all it contains,
all I could have told you?

Let’s run an empire far off the — the first the —
& inhibit stimulus regulation within sight
Killer Joe staying small they say, only to walk-ins
& wrestlers who portray border patrol..

I’m thinking of a movie, “Do you know how many?”

The sun shines larger. We rely, really like your ideas. / O
great. You can stay with me + have what you own grow
as an entire practice, obsessive habits flattened into
cognition-festering symmetry

about a skirmish between distinctions
over words bringing up the actual goods
times incorrigible brain-states of Asia.

It’s a question of .. you can say art or Art Farmer.
There are no stages.

There’s no way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital.

After millennials there’s homesickness, new inebriation, a little suffering a little moving in with my
parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best opus, a tight 100 hours of urban-U,
Godzillian scale narrative casually hiding in self help boilerplate..

I’m feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what I did when my adolescent
backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels. My greatest fear is going deeper into Dr Jeckel —
I’d be dragging a palm frond around 4 a.m. That would kill my parents.

They’re dead already.

If you’re anamorphic, government 2 often comes out with all-of them, highlights. Or low-2-high if you like
sex, be sure 2 wake me up. Pick a spot and be seen as well as seem breathing, o Swami —
Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self reflective outreach; hence the corporation is late

and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens. Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,
the plays and jungle, many in a series — during your mother’s labor you chose your parents,
keeping their lives 2 lose you.

Thank you for your musical style, a payee’s piece about

the imageless form to experience / current status win-loss =

Average as guilt, blandness is a problem. No luck, too popular.

Everything dark brute-accented inflates 3 dimensions into immense mist clots

too mid-acre to reformulate. (It’s up in the air. The property goes on while.)

The ornithologists’ gist is the sparrow’s wardrobe is beaten but breathing.

The unequal in luck float more. I hope you’re happy.

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions

like these unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the moment,
surrounding it with illusions of taking off for the unknown, spinning or spun,
upset, out of control yet

that’s how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects.

100% our touch.

Who owns property, names, or anything under formalism?

We grew up 20th century, 100 years sooner when
more than research suggests

it was treacherous. Owners on top, perpetrators / victims
of aggression involving peers.

Now your party last night was great. We dwelt publicly on difference,
on crispnesses in whispers in the air;

there was a gate to nothing like a silent film in a process language.
Mercury is arrow & bow! pensive. It’s

coming back, back...

no..
No to tempos of glyphic turmoil ground into torpid incision, no Daddy-o.

No!
No contusion of the spheres.

I’m saying no, not the first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, a stance cover & I dislike a crackdown that fabricates its essence — otherwise normal project managers on the roof, smug in clown sport outfits at the top of their game, which is synchronized, written over from scratch.

Cut the skull-like crocus, low opinions, bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. & no

ilk of valid scouring colloids — simple? No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also,

no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, no rose gum.



If I put a question mark after feeling genreless, it’s live

while dreams of Lubitsch films



don’t exist — here we go — appreciating in value?
discourse running late — this is one’s newest



moment favoring an objective.

Example: Sun up, Fra Angelico,



girl, you’re a mess.

I’m going to grab you.

First I spoke Marxian argot, fighting amid effluvia
yet achieving quadratic status, a friend’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush...

as the guy interested in robots, the narrator,
urinates, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts all over
himself. He says this lets off steam.

Private-public ideas, made-see-through
& of fine voice. “A voice & nothing more.”

I’ll do what I can. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes
turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated audition,
trapping you if you let go while yielding authority.

I Hey

I talk in a lowered register to get totally inside your face. My face. My brow sports a few layers of sleep
relief, aching in baby, cutely accruing intimacy to belie despair over zero gravity.
So there’s no dead end!

But it’s my doing, making money hard to borrow. Ambitions clenching-tight,
I’m in a century where that passes for control, shafted by the viability of conquering death
with abundance.

Sprigs pick up, driftwood gets epigrammatic, many upsides unrelated, pale, immaculate.
With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds its style, taking all its time.