And lost things. Are be com ing. In crea sin gly ab surd. How deck oh mei. In her ab sence. Loves to watch things burn. And lost thin(n)n(n)nn(n))n***(gs are be com ing. In crea sing ly con cerned. Watch this old song.
Which the thing was this first start happeted whilely. I come to understand you are the keeper of the idea of a man who in his body at the gate daydreams a door opening and yes. Whale district bay. Old soot on his right shoe staring up at him. His helm is a lion’s head enframed in Grecian ale leaves and he sways a little and the gate remains closed at all times. While therebeneath Yeats’s brain a wandering might’ve occured also, only outside of time, I have to tell you. This too being the name. We are (not) concerned. We are concerned. I began to write this series of nonsense after rehab when I began living at shhhhhhhhh says the alformat Deindrene psychopathic pill-bottle mongoloid. Shhh says the SHHHH!!! I do not want to wake you. Upon lofted toes the achre dwarves stroll you on their shoulders to a glade in an advertisement for Mountain Dew (insert trademark). I sit down I would sit down initially and just hammer it out like a typewritten unapologetic spree and feign blast rhythm and sometimes not at all feign and at times also eventually reach nearly-lucid flowy states. Suntlye nerlydowell. Some typos I would instantly realize I preferred over their corrections and some typos often immediately or shortly after the previous ones I’d strike back and scratch and change. Yeah all that. Like in a few of these previous clauses for sure. But Baron bun tark et yu. He monoliths the show stage. The audience are beaker skullpeople wafting magiclike smoke a purple grain to their clothes harkening back to a distinct sort of prologue I wrote as a teen entitled “Somewhere Eight, Post Meridiem.” But the majority not supposed to be necessarily truth in fact truth having nothing to do with it sfar as Icantell. There’s a yeet scur tantying amounts in the alley off burk and narrow vein. To Tea DeLaw Fren Niend Divine. Less word salad than archipelagoes rising for their own sakes, divining their own names. This one is Frieksa this one is Arkansauce this one is Leu Tolo May. I traverse each one in a separate dream with a pirate crew like that Japanese cartoon One Piece. I frost silent rims of draft glasses with my cooling breath. I wait at the table. For silence to come and finish me, while the bar waits. Deft denine looking into a parasol like a kook wanting to know if God’s grief is a brief day or else. Wait by the fire while I walk with you. Return to emblem set in a deep green the greedy land murrs sticking shafts of ice into the earth which spread like Fuji kudzu. Tomorrow lake all this all in a dream. The point is not to try too hard to hold on to just like let go once the sentence is held and follow it up with a thing whether it coheres or not. To frame drab silence in a limitless oxy bowl. Deepers dipping their hands in for more. Fur-warm engine skin scraping another. Quall kest nest quest to lay harking lolls. On the roof of Dinner The Princess Astrauu. Who is a muffin but still does her hair red against the blueberries. I come to call out swing wide you gate ignoring capitalized beginnings of imbedded sentences. Or punctuations denoting exlamation. Or time. Thyme leaf of pages set in a storage unit somewhere with my original baby-egg of a monsterly novel somewhere somewhere feen. It’s disk relate. It doesn’t show you. There are passages on passages of iron lanes. Igneous invisible ideas sleep and swim through. Some of them their lanes are pushed along, some of them the water is still and they really really have to swim. You cao trep cow on a field wielding bugaboo sintrince. Watching the blink slow down on a marmalade. Not denighted yet the sky the field the far off village watching wows. Silent wows. The ideas represent themselves independently if at all; most are confused as to the nature of themselves. Symbols on the page they translate tangently into stifle moans of exhaust and **gh-gh-gh-gh** shivers and freeze like paused rain. Unknowing what ghosts lie in dins of tribute, creating them. And then o course yes there is you there is the reader there is the one picking up the page glancing down maybe along the sentences’ lines in frame. Trying to make sense of it or not and finding something like a feeling or image in their brain. You don’t like to wait but you like when the waiting is over, tell me do you: do you know your own name? Say it aloud. No? Why won’t you? You did, I just can’t hear you because I’m writing this already way before your time? oh. No, oh. You didn’t. You didn’t say it aloud. I’m just lying. You’re not? You can’t. This wont? This won’t work yes I know. But I fry a dozen or three bags of chicken at the local grocery store a day until I decide at once to just walk out like an asshole, leaving everyone to do my things. I am sad before and am still sad but I can breathe now, even if the future’s less certain. There are trains woosh trains! Yes. Going by. Over rails of iron glazed in friction smooths. Making rackets of rackets. Weighing in to bet you a gillion things. “How much do you want to … that the next time you blink leaving already tried? How much.” Wan decks of slate falling over like incapable omming mows. Blessed wrecks of cane. Odd innie Oreos. How do you interpret it, selver ain? come up to the gate where Gnosh fritzed man in his daydream stands and slightly sways, doing his job like they told you to. What does when you approach he say? “Hello.”? Curt legacy? Bling of vines aswoop from a newly goddened forest in the sky? Picking him up? Is it are they picking him up now? Does he smile? Does he just give you a blank? Do you watch him ascend in the hold of plants while your mind remains it real? So it’s gosh, well? Do you walk up to the gate? Open the gate? And it all is just normal, like everything. What amazes us about dreams like a cardinal strike. I come-to as a rhino breathing in an instant heartbeat. I walk to the bathroom to take a leak. I cross-hatch my fingers over my face and breath like a sigh and breathe. What does it want to? Where did it all go when the pars for Paris weren’t so high?