SECURED AGAINST HARES
1.
Populate silhouettes. You have to rig the wilderness trauma to quiet the quarantine. Crayfish. The torso tastes salty and bleep anatomies blot out the crawl. Capture. Bind and blue the undertow. I have to be bartered to attempt such a reproduction. In an occupation fists must be landscapes; holler anatomies must take the place of placards. Farce anatomies: movies clunk like elevators. Horses kick. Neighs bride against the walls. Speak shutdown dictions through the concussion. Sheathe. Cut horses. Rig. We will live this afternoon: Hospital bric-a-brac, bullhorns.
2.
You are more horse concussion. Stuffed deer make more than mere nostalgia for a past I hosed down at 4 a.m. last. The rabbled initiatives mark an improvement on the stabbings I used to conduct. Out there is a light that lacks skin disease. In here has more sound than gasoline. We burn jackals with our overtures. We science gunk for laughtracks when nobody is manning the breakage. You are more than a shout in slowly slowly. It’s important not to wreck. Moths glamour in here and outside, against the window. Use a megaphone for adolescence.
3.
Object to termites in my holler anatomies. The storage research will never fully occupy the vandalized train station. Assembled in the moth-flurred spotlight and linked to the whistle, my arms are ready for inspection. Announce the residential plot on my life: thousand colors. The thump on the hood felt danker, softer than banishment. The zoning stretched like a gesture across the vacant land where we all breathed. It must have been Greece. A changing, birds, instructed laughter. And to tell you how I bled would be to repeat.
4.
The flinch cut was the first time I ruined my arm against a crowd. The homeless provided the necessary cold to exploit. A voice lesson. A fire instructional in three acts. The jitterbug proved too fingery. The horses are still not as cut up as my arm was national. Open the pawnshop. The strangle is empty with blue. Cover the crew in tarpaulin. Wild the facilities.
5.
When the impulse to cage has barked into photography, it is time to oink-oink out of here. I came here to press charges. I came here to mess. All I have accomplished with this new set of torso takes is to suburb. It’s graduation day. Flinch for the camera.
6.
Pour out the fluids. Pawn up the chest. It was at that very instance I was presented. A burst condom. The instance was soundproofed. Torso of cotton. Even if I wanted to shatter a doll’s head it wouldn’t sound more than the 20th century sounds now like lipstick applied in a laundromat. Smear the deserted circus for a new experiment in Coca-Cola. It still works on immigrants. They’ll pig and pig the girl. Squeal morning. Tear a portrait of plastic bags. Suffocate. Pick my arm from the fire-drill. If you can’t recognize the ruin, pick it clean. Flinch. Paint my dog-eyes like night, i.e. flinch
Johannes Goransson |
