Hundreds of our paralyzed sons have the electric tremble. They are spasmotics with an uncertain gaze that pours from their face. The Middleincomers call it “the agony of browsing.” They claim that the world is a massive environment.
It is with this that they vainly respond to the world, like a response that dreams of the great Lottery.
Sit and secure your apples, frappucinos, and more frappucinos, apples and more apples; it is the aspiration of le weekend; a true weak end that will never come again.
They dance on glass. They lay chords to serve their nerves and dance on glass.
They yearn to promulgate brief dreams with yeast; they work elegantly; they are barbarous glaciers and will always return their shirts to the shop because they are afraid of NOTHING.
The brain in their crevice lies open and slips through their eyes. And the chairman. What else is there to say about the charred-man? Who will wait for the shared man to come again?
It depends on vitamins.
The horrible clock rolls the hour to rest. The buoyancy of their drama lies in the east.
Without having any courage, they lie about the east …
Their marble suit opens in the middle of the black afternoons.
It depends on vitamins.
Daily, like all the tortured Middleincomes, she dreams of queuing at the entrance to the Palace of Confetti.
Each dependent quill laughs in this regard; the lucid fate of an infant’s love.
The horror clock which batters them with passion, dances in love with the Middleincomer’s eviction.
A sign of accelerated times. The world turns through its hateful precipitation. Its poetry will never reverse the destination of the sudden market.
The courage to work when spasms attack raises the baton in battle against the font of violent agitation.
Are the 34 branches on the horse-tree composed enough to make a fire-sale in the rain?
Yes, it is the Middleincome.
A suffering Middleincome; a Middleincome that does not know how to put the surplus out, that does not know how to comment on his tenure, or how to make comments to your face; who does not know the true pulse of his own middle-income.
The illness drips from his son’s chin.
May he never enter into battle again. His branches, double clipped in his service, will be utilized against his enemies. The illness will pass abroad and traverse his corpse.
May he never enter into battle again.
Served jam on long legs; fine and in curves, the grand and gracious Middleincome.
They dream of victorious courses; love to regret their projects; love to pour over their desire.
And their elegance is never lost as they dance through space, drunk on the scent of their own interests.
The extreme elasticity of the Middle-incomer is the source of our jouissance. The delight of sick-pay, as well.
Something smells charred in the ballot tomb since my son filled it with iron. Swinging his sponge between the DJ booth and the press-tent as other viewers eat seashells. A boy served on glass. A phosphorous trance, highly regarded by the guardian. Perhaps the scent of total illness drives the Middle-incomers … seizures, pica, conflict, crisis, divides them into sentimental patriots …
"I am Chelsea Manning. I am a female. Given the way that I feel, and have felt since childhood, I want to begin hormone therapy as soon as possible. I hope that you will support me in this transition."
An harmonic sequence of disarmament: the birth of your wound is as torturous as your face. Mine has the desequenced palindromic suck of a silent mouth. I have written through the acrobatic slur with the air of a pirouette - I have written in the deepest fallible quintessence. I write during a dream-embargo. I know where the stars have gone and who has taken them, but yet I can only give you my silence, my great, mediated silence.
And if my “eye” had been born from the ooze of your dizzy “tube” or “nose” or “humane passion”, I would have been obliged to personalize my application-form with the humility of a mutant “I-am-yours”.
Simulacrum. Queering your palindromic ultimatum. A tampered bomb. My primitive towel wiped up my yes. Confounded come, gives a part to the intangible real. I have fastened myself to a hidden-camera logic. In Cairo they have no instinctive, no directive, no future tensive: an intervention for hope has now entered their mouths unified by the major insurgency of the futurists. A desolate yes is the future now. The quality of horror today is the horror of the market. The cadence of criminal sickness pours from them into me as I unfasten my logic. My state lifts come from primal matters. My state attracts the queer figure, attracts the gift of thinking. They cannot utilize these queer classifications: I have simply escaped my birth through interruptured deixis. My pregnant genes will never give birth. My state numbs the state as mute as a new egg and verifiably, curiously, the same as myself, attracted and personal at the point of birth. The power to picture love or a scriptured love. In practice, queer come is contiguous with the moment. It drives towards your quantity of love. Alien birth quakes in the pudendum pushed with the full force of the funded event. And the state comes in contact with the energy of the circle cunt, given to extremism. A species of dream, dreamt up harmonics. In sequence their mouths drown in the service of primitive money. They queue before the entrance of the dead moon. The primitive mouths doused in their gods’ come, grants them admittance to the vastness of bone. In sickness, the birth of a queer conscience in the bone, enveloped in come, eats through the normal cables. In sickness, we queue to bomb.
Fixed in the instant substitute trace of an appropriated death, an altered birth - I am fixed in the metamorphic instant and dribble the terrible beauty of your commodity sequence.
from an ongoing version of Clarice Lispector’s ‘Água Viva’
Two giant babies, gorged on their own extremities, drowned in poignant endorphins, like immobile tenants.
Combat is learnt through hard work and cash.
The lame repose of a head on another’s body and someone else’s hands strengthens the hesitancy of the face. Quit supplying condiments to the anterior fontanelle, your infant son imprints his dance around the cot with a supple cranium. We will be eaten up by gigantism.
Source your liquor responsibly, it will reflect well upon you. Do not doubt the labour required in a heartfelt facebook post.
They ate all the clouds and danced the water into a profound malaise.
Eating bass, like the bass that meets
in points beneath the ocean,
cruelly separating the core
smooth over the circle of the 6th cross,
three beats in bass
like an encrusted dance upon
the mother’s tear
a decent castration delights eternity,
immobile world of
the mere curtain
This tear of black carbon
enters the soul as misplaced humidity -
dance the vote
set at Rodez…
The rich are queuing for their new panels
to pass inspection before september points
towards the clarity of an orifice with a tear.
Six homes were eaten whist the poor
chapped under the beating sun,
a seventh home was eaten
as the sun cruelly taunted its black
inhabitants; all it left was a half-eaten
chair, rouged with
guts & blood.
Gold, was the seventh home,
like a horse
a horse with a home
equipped with amenities
But it is the horse
that eats the sun
and not the home.
Serve the detachment of the tambourine and
the trumpet lunge,
these 6 homes
couched within the state, equipped
with the rule of terror and
successively sent to jail like a tourist
who cannot look past the sun
and never returns alone,
dead lotus water,
they all eat the same chalk when
sent to jail,
the gang correspond to surplus shadows
to eat the rentier class
and beat the drum
of a justice sequence, everything blown up
upon arrival, a grand
the havoc vitality of vertigo,
behind the sun
lies premium property,
the black horse without
a new home,
and on the verge
of service to the lord.
Erroneous bonds advance survival and the meandering
circulation of the eaten
horse meat we all knew we could afford
to arrest our charcoal sauce
and decide the fate of rock music,
justice for the 6 homes
ain’t to be achieved in the corner
the sick and their crutches.
Gold, the major tone of ritual justice
THE ABOLITION OF THE CRUSHED
Erroneous achievement, the detournement
of the deported
crushed with terror
eat your new homes
that serve the horse,
the immense faith of the horse,
quit trembling and dance the capture of his blood.
Immensity deserted. Parliament
shattered and deserted.
My dependent son,
infant of the wind,
dancing laps of rain.
Who are the poor? Parched remains
in the pores of looted housing;
for as long as they live.
Your money does not know how to take a comment thread
and my dependent son,
dancing infant of the wind,
has eaten all the rain,
dancing his denouement as he lives an ill life.
And your two gods in the sky
have ill and suffering breath.
May my illness never alter
in the wind, pass
the changer of the situation
with the quiet restraint
of a telluric kiss.
Maintain the U. L. -
voice your rapport with the scene.
My son the infant, his nest is
loose in his loins.
A passive surplus multiplied by ten.
The sky’s uneven vault
of guerrilla mix-tapes.
Our pain is full of obligation.
Dead loins enloined, he goes: “Tut! Tut!”
And that is all.
There shall be no more commerce.
There shall be no more racist reconfigurations.
No more passive racist reconfigurations.
“Tut! Tut!” he cries in the breath of his alien retinue.
Your impoverished fear is sacred.
Make the past null.The dance pours the noun. The past: null.
On this violet night I hear burning songs and the odor of bronze. The cell is blank, the icicles above my bed are blank. The cell is blank, filled with a torrent of voices that move through angelical cables; this blank cell is filled with the odor of bronze, burnt songs and dead angelical cables.
Silence: the violent string of the night: in arabesques through the blank bars and the deep blue of sleep.
I picture Ankara: deserted scars above a nervous mountain: deserted white streets: white marble canisters: Ankara chants in the street: a clown with red eyes buffers a scream across the grid.
Now my land is trapped in piece between two peaks. We move our paralyzed heart from the cemetery to the park and watch the neurotic clamor of the machine as it jumps up and down.
There is no encore to the night; my silent glimpse occludes the focus of the fire: the machine is eating, re-eating up the black silence that clusters in the night.
A screen: swells into a stream and closes: the purple glare chews apart the night: with our beating heart from the cemetery our pupils expand behind our spectacles, everything, it seems, is muted in the buffering: Are we fenestrated window-tabs as we lift our branches to the light ? ?
(the stream passes through the brain, rumbling like tomorrow).