Merry Victim Dance
Counter active pillars and progress lanking, self-made seepers into the graphic matriarch. The patron who climbed into his car without dire elusiveness the effects of a jammer patrol way seething its mark and using the colors as though they were proud. No ventures without the capital investments, seethers they were. Gripping down their beings in the round circles never more like the others they used up the old ones to play with. Scraping dents, losing offices in time for the playbacks. Muscle men far away, they could come and play too. Drooling the mouths and seethers caught the escape liquids for value. In a handsome cup. Draping cord material around carriers to take it away. Grape material, venetian cloth for the cups to embellish on, selling for a price so fair, so modest. Eyes all pounded the road, hitters sized them up. Laughers, laughers. They had become. Giving a gift to the Persian one.
Bypassing grapplers to tuck on another area ground lacking sojourning laughers. Seething mindballs. Blue sailing deafener, a pilgrimage. Seers makeshift to see the time sliders, bending to their feet in merriment. Peeing on their knees. Violets purple and waiting to hand find in the blues.I kissed it. And was off.
The seethers handled the pennies. Sore bumps turned red and inflamed. It should not be infected to turn green or gray. They bended. Composite snapshots. The dirt slips under their nails, pretty to see or bite to get. Swallowing mouthfuls of it or was it not good to the taste. Was it grounded. Or good. Snagging my finger I pulled the thin strand out of its cloth. Silky piece of gray or gold metal.
Sealing it and leaving it on my nail where it should have stayed; flying around in air and brush against jackets and water. Loose and civilian. I found its ability never to measure. Lace on the table. Fumes come to action come to rot. A sewer.
Glowers in the shield and glowers man over cardboard heavy and fine to wear in the winter.
He grappled me and grappled me and I laughed and laughed. The vine kept falling down and I strapped it around its metal gold stick. All that sticky shit matter green I remember. Bear soul on to grievances, lacking a penny in its helpers, or no, no helpers afforded mixed sewers for the job. Keeping in time, motion, motion, motion, retrievers send out their sticks never to get away; stir the pot boiling on the stove and crimson delight they all know. Keep the water clean to me and I swish the jurors to their feet again couldn't it be the same. Kegs fire salving joes marking the heels engraving implanting veneers for statue. Vine rods hang to the tips, easels blend with them to be much better or polished chrome. A blender in disguise. Mash the weeping willow tree to the ground.
Archives slashers like jovial guests pour out. Make the tumor grow and steal away jupiter's heavens away on orbit they whispered faintly, I could not hear. Slide. Shoot the fog to see what comes out of it in the rain. Like always.
Climbing driving persecutors they assembled. Lock on shelves to the tubal structures constructed porcelain and hand maiden carpenters wood, naked wood. Illuminate a lantern above seethers mark the timbre. Devious. Devious. Haters for crap. They sent cellular beings as though pernicular creatures wooden. Send around. Be host they sounded tiny partitions grazing lock modes, hell frozen and bent, ready for time.
Ready. Seep. Seep. Grapple. And grapple the chassis away in arms of gold never sounding off pleasant vehicles to move. Blast it away. Golden sheep herders oil dessert premium market baskets to lie on or sleep on because I get tired. Sleep away time posers I hold flowers to the side in marvel as I sleep. It doesn't bother me. Bent away grooves, toothpicks cartridge power heavy, matrix torn apart, used for good wood. Bleeping the matrix. Lumber torn, dead away and orange delightment. Frowning their pennies off, laughing in despise. Grown up or down, they don't tell, they know; creeping their demise and relishing the thought to plan drapes and darkening rods.
Queue up to the landing. Marked plaster and water. Stomped madness expelled in sea ports, gathered again, to wait. Jammers inside. Mobile faucets lined with gold dishes and blue. A mushroom. A single wheeze or two. Bitter vetches coughers lacking their smiles, a pilgrimage to a land where they were never gone. Wallflowers. Butterscotch victims and hand maiden's space goo.
Crabble, crabble, they hurt again. Warping me away spheres green and pure. Oh, God, it makes a country bird fly away, moon haze storage frozen beauty pile away.
Oh, God, the heal, never wakes.
Shielded door positive planned brown lines black up and around lives streaks portholes never open or were they blown to the carpet and mauled. The painters missed. My house is so brim. Black up and down.
Speeded pillows gentle makeup bagged layers spread to me. Lap biting cravings to make good apologies for no wrong bleeders. A gulp turned into a smile for its green sheets. Coming apart open wide for nothing salad days were upon me again. I wish it to end. Like, the brimmer platoons crabbed and woefully creped bejeweled in soot looking pine in head purple -- makes for the one. Red buildings tall and lined shaded fasteners stored in windows. The building was see-through. Red haze I saw. Next to solid figure structure canvased quickly, graph. Majestic. Making me feel new. Old new.
Bludgeoned, I hate. I cry the hacksaw pounded I hit it and hate goddamned things. Penguins shit. Ripping to see its guts fall out like the ick on the ground.
It's creeping down, bodies magic, squealers nickels shafted layers it kills its fine textures. Goodbye to misery land. Or was the thing right. A masterful gripper. Honeyed and triggered. Laying.
Piss that flows out silky. It rarely does. It usually hurts. Craving ghosts and feeling shadows that come to focus once in a year, they turn and follow me out to the inside, lead me astray, coming close but never grasping. Blue Danube song hitting harder as each note changes. Lisping the words. Holes torn in the night. And surfaces changes. Masking tape hides to prevent bugs from coming in and taking control. I piss at them before they do.
Drapes close and feel me under softer lights. Pink. Skin froths through the pores, I have to be in the room because of the rules. They press me.
Crap, stupid crap. Airing the shelf stand. New paint. Varnish the banquet, capture the moon. A beehive. On my doorway. I walk past. The drapes closed and darkening the room. The holes in the material shine light through. And flowers die.
Tips soft, uneven tickle my feet. I won't don't leave. The pillows don't match and the sheets are blue. I count the stains, hate the dress, mark the colors as though they were meaningful to me, in my mind. Rough surface, soft underside, or soft completely. Sapphire rings too tight on my fingers. I see they're turning a funny shade of purple. They have been for too many years. Pre-washed denim. A mirage on the wall. A movie. I watch it. It knows. The colors. I have to notice the colors because they ring differently and turn. Little demi boy rides away smiling. And waving goodbye. I presume to me. A kick shelfies behind the headboard.
They know no party plans.
They incorporate god inferiority. Stupid preponderance over the happiness to bring forth on each Tuesday. Poddy stuff. Concentration camps or bootleg whiskey. Lasting predominance. Over me. On tap. I'm never some where it comes from. It just suddenly appears, and I'm there with no good remarks to forge my signatures onto. The barometer goes up, passe pulses of intuition account for shit. Those stupid colors again. Red.
Green. What the hell does it cost me. I can't pay too much. My reserves leave quickly. My christmas tree blew out. Green pines, green needles, green branches, brown bark. No pretty colors. I had no business with it anyway.
My name is still Susie Maelen, I think.
Blasted shooters down the hill in the field scared me. I heard shots in my ears. They didn't fill the room, just my ears; the others stared. At me. And I took brief casual glances at the packages, to be sure. Any casualness scared me also. In a rare mood of almost certain hope, but, I was left alone. Talkers scare me.
The little purple heads hanging over the sofa blinked at me. I blinked, or rather, I took initiative and winked back. I needed some salad. All the purple masses turned into brown. I imagined it to be green or white, but mainly green. Like snot.
Sick tummies and rotten hurt, I wanted to lie down, saliva orders overcome in sequence, they headed, rain and perfumed the room. Jockular creveries gathered in innuendo glasses. Simple presentative cares and the hair and jelly fusion on the walls, belated. In-operate simplicity grafted on skin. Alive. Scraped for possible death in cells like caves. Mammoth perfume flowers lost without their glasses to be contained in some small array, to be taken away. A jagged line sewn tears between the stripes, sharp metal ends prod, moving to jerk away from teh awful glue and the tear begain. Scrapes, scrapers come. Big green teeth above me ready to snarl and open wide his jaw so I can see his throat's heavy thickness.
Grassy sweat, laid to the land in beds of fields far from the colders. It isn't far. It seems that way. Caught around the bends of itch, pouring making me wet, it isn't sticky or light.
Crawford jelly corrupting veneers in the mood. Handsomely portrayed. The fields mastered to their highest point so a bird could not see or touch the ground when flying overhead, and devils, cute ones, like a child, bends its head never to recommend, but yet to be there in madness, it doesn't laugh it doesn't tear me apart.
Creeping away, as a short belch, mindful of the fields laid out to walk across in stealth, a handful of no endness, concentration of the lacking gifts or what I'd rather have had. The grass slopes downward as it should, its edges are sharp and not too perfect, correctness in the fields, a bloom of laughing to hard, like too much sadness. Border of violet, circling, miraging, bluing in time; a performance to sew around the edges and have it stay together in tapestry. Mooning through the window. Something moves and dances. Stops. Jagged boo boo.
Dulcimers play Indian tunes, the coined charm and strokes are pleasing. I wanted to clap. Holdup men ushered us away and pondered their worth while we ate the dread set before us. A legend framed and golden true to its roots, past noted sentiments, they had for a period of time. I wonder over it. There is no judgement as I had hoped for. Curative oils settled and beaded on my forehead to pick at a minor scream I had carelessly let out and was mauled by. The punitive juices. Know. I despised.
Desperate songs they played had heart to my way of thinking. Chords out of tune and fine together meshed with despair, puritanical despair. I heated from it.
Playing grasper and raspier along the note lines they loosely followed, interwinding, feuding their way to a long ceremonious victim dance. To pick one. Who would it be? Ruminously.
Lanking along, plowing fields with its claw feet, metal and heavy chunks of sharpeners readied and steadying its stand as it began to churn. On the switch. Push towards. Bounded for vain glory periods making relocating recipricates. hey mounted as ever, forcing a pull to the oxen burdens; crushed into the ground -- spikes were their claws shaped like feet. The power hauling it requires to move beyond endurance. They move slowly nearly none at first. Sweating and groveling for traction. Out of breath quickly. A spiralous attack deafens their ears and the ground gives way. They move. In definite patterns. And now to pick the one to be the seed.
An indicative track. A mountain filled inside with wonderment. It was big and hollow. Smooth instead of crusty. Jellyfish swim through the lake nearby.
It was a bing blurb on the side of the enemy. If only I could have identified them. Newsletters I've studied past the prime dates and never afar travelled for information. They gathered many. Plausible recounts terminated lavishable moody spirits. They drifted. I could not follow. A plague to see forth this. They clifted something I wonder what. Grassle. Could it have been. Sound mashers and potholes I perloined. A mountain. I remember it but cannot remember its name. Why must things change so? In my perplexities, or if I must call them that -- I haven't isolated them down to that yet -- a solid bronze figure pulls out and rejoins me. A deep corner. Perhaps impassible to me. I sweat.
Because I hate isolating my own crap. Shit. Greed. Lack Master donners that. She can.
Termination. Like determination. I'm hated and I hate and I hope I'm normal like everyone else and I hate to god the idea of self purposely rejuvenating my worn out psyche. So what else can I do. A Lack Master indicative track. Indestructible co-nation. My spinal deafens. Counter-ran for the paupers in the courtyard.
Jambles of fluids water the lawn and make puddles. Hoisting turtles above the beds, they save their kind. And a glass used in drinking the water breaks, causing someone to have to come out of a sleep and drown it away from our feet. Land fights and power tools comes away dangling. It's all for his own laughs anyway. To hack at the machine for finding a way to avoid it. Sweet smells.
Judged in the valley, the judge has no face in which to place commitment on. Saspirin dunking in the lake purifies it. The slides I slide down on. A swing. Flat now and hanging. It does me good only to remember a piece of the rubber, a mortuary to drawn in, and a carpenter who drives nails into the ground. Pieced away. And that they lack it now. Sideways bluer, created power to control a small gift had from a lacer's idea, a pound of chocolate covered peanuts, danced over foot.
The crowners placed the crowns on their own heads. And I smothered myself. The blanket came down, wiping my body, my face harder and harder, rubbing in my face, grasping me, holding on for nothing to stop and yet nothing to gain, bearing down heavier, the blanket had no holes to be through, a solid mass, placed harder with grips -- steel -- major makers doing pull, harder, smackers letting know, demi ones letting go, heavier ones keeping on, the blanket got wet and into my nose it went.
Shine pink. And pretty. Do a cuticle act with force and grace and get pushed back. (You) Silly little hangnail.
Slop shine. Do the act. Dance. Play nice. It helps. You'll see.
My little dress sings. It harps up and down as I walk. My little dress gets smaller each year. I do a playback; and dance and it grows back. I fit it. And in my song, I sing it in chorus of one. It's so cute I'd like to die. My shoes tap, tap, tap.
Supine, I'd like to be. And I like to tap, tap, with it. Rising. Pinky ruffles. Yards to go. It stands in its ground and I stand planted in mine. The birds nest in the tree is rarely visited by a bird anymore. Just a lonely next of twigs and grass waiting to hold little eggs. Waiting to be hatched. Or drop to the ground and break their little hearts with pity and a yellow messy mess. Really. I'm the one who broken them. I did it because they were fragile. And because I wanted to.
And my little dress sings. I sing with it. In harmony of one. Hoary mess.
Growing things. Anywhere.
Session players diamond on head makers or bally on the floor. Losers mount and boas prepare to pounce. A blood sucker enjoying the fiend, flavor grinders on the skin. Scorched buzzing. The clock, plugged in and running. A small patch, rough and irregular, the biter eats away in savory pieces, in careful modes, to not do too much from swallowing and saliva. Or to eat away too much and fill in the empty cavities with nothing but blood. Patched up and filled. It glows in the dark. The numbers I count as I try to induce myself.
Green numbers shining in my face. I lay on my back no ceiling to face so I stare. Shining hand moves around faster than the rest. In fact I can't see the others move at all. Except when I close my eyes. When I open them, the hands have moved to point to a new number.
Multiplication tables I try to remember. Ones are easy. Twos are harder. Co-existing plexus. Graphic mess. My soreness and cushions melt into harder pieces of glass. As though I thought they would go away from me. Lack master would merrily laugh. I shall not do it. It was so unusual though. I usually do not get this way. I usually do not give away.
I can't remember the eights and the nines I would wish to miss anyway. The clock moves so slowly. A gift of time. My present to keep until it runs out. Cancelling subscriptions so I tend to think. Grapple it beside me to ever repeat the slogans, or memorize the words. As though I should. See a cubicle sign for me to read and know that it is mine to break or use in cute ways. Tally up the matter on a piece of Yahtzee paper. Blessed are thy words, I tried to forget. A shall of gro-course. So blessed are thy creatures who make the beams on the walls so I can't fall through. Or were they ceilings? Chip a piece off of the building stone and see it crumble. Blueberry running down the path. Creatures to ponder over, kneel to, believe in. I made a board to fit my door, in case they come in the night. That's the same. Assumed. Roaming without shoes on. Not even a purse to find something to eat in. Pulled or pushed. I can't get it straight. Bleed anyway. Put the red line on a finger and slice where it stains. Rejuvenate kissing on a good night and bless it for its recognizance, I sat frozen when they announced the news. I lost what they were saying. And believe that it wasn't that important. I really believe it. I have to. Simple dentures that come out and are replaced.
A size for me to blow on some of my food and recourse a map for my own sake for him. Monkey blue, squash termites joined in the daytime chatter between hope casualties, sequined they wanted to be known. Invading my home. I made it. My own. There were curtains.
Heavy ones too, I assume. Or at least that's what I seemed to know they thought. Goddamned warriors. I shut them out of my house. When I see them at my door they're not coming in again. My curtains were yellow.
Like the sun, I suppose. That's what everyone hopes to believe. I'm not sure. I think mine were yellow; more like piss. Shoveling dirt from the street, they had lovely jobs. I felt sorry for them.
Custom session played all night one sound at a time. Reaching to the machine it played one note and backed away. With a grim. The clear glass jars were emptied in a hurry to eat away the dish. It surfaced perplexed lacking a specific worry, just one big mass of perplexities without the ability to divide and subdivide into a neat outline or even identify one stupid contributing aspect. The mass hung at a certain place filled with only certain things looked upon only at certain times when it rang in suddenly and not prepared for it, it jumped in anxious and very unfrightened of destruction. I don't believe it could be destroyed. You knew it was to come only a second before its arrival. Cock roaches crawled up the woodwork. Brick layers pounded the door, wanted you.
Savitron System making guidance sound with its finger sounds so pitiful. Clapped apart and ready to be prepared to stand off the hog mice exuberantly admiring it nonetheless. They crowned it.
Sucking my goiters, pretend one's to make something to do. Paranoia kickers; I startled in my own self. Ass pilgrimage to a see where I can be beautiful and ugly. Sucking my own do.
Like a witch hunt.
The sweater sleeves hang too low over my hands. Covering the veins. I decide to keep the sweater on. Pulling the sleeve down even lower.
To not care. I've often wondered if I could. Shelve the afghan full and bring it a glass of water to drink in the middle of the night because of a thirst. I hover over it and drink it to death.
Boiled in a savory wine, no texture to remember, I began the wetness, and it dried -- by last night there was nothing left to sift a hand through. Another thing to forget about until next time. Doing its double duty. Predicting the schemes.
It taught well and beaten at leads on grievers she pounded out a smile once in a while. Sizable galley victim to which there was no cure. I don't remember her name. She came to me it took a long time to realize. The possibilities. The stupid reasons. Guided from a secret she learned too well. She was lack master in a tide. Seeded from side to side. Hugged graphology. It showed the patterns. I headed away from them.
She brought to me a gold coin. Which I used. She slacked her will to move, I created hell, she drove me to places I wanted to go, I coughed in her face. So did he. Crafted finely at exact places, he knew before me. Shall face. Green and mounted, he knew. Brought from broken cases. Trayed and relished. Planted where it ought not be, it stood there anyway. To be good. To root and find good things up there in the air where a tinkle was free. I crept away.
Unheard. A little bell clapper stopping to take a breath, landed in quietly and guilding, its home dull golden to shine away the nose. Unheard. For it didn't speak. Like it knew. Like I knew. Polished little crayon smashed on the paper. Was it stepped on. Or burned.
A mailgram on a day waiting for rain. In vain to stop a disconnector from making it home. Greyed and discolored.
Tripod on the dew, it was. Shaking from the cold. Masticating all the creepers who brought bread home in the night. They carried it all the way home. SHuffled lockers banged home in its dick in the door to hang, power tools gave his suction away and we fell to the floor.
Where would they go. The realms went home. Shuffled, power tools lost his neck. It still lays there on the old chrome tables I decided never to look at.
It has held too much. Sawed off a lot of ways. To help it to victim by it, I wasn't one to want to try any last attempts, forced to, I knelt toward the gravestone rather than die. A better chance. I needed that for some sort of strategy to use, to get better and leave without being a shot away. Siphoned to the world at a slow rate. Auctioned on a table.
Did I go away too? I looked the other way as I saw he was being carted away. A prerogative held dear. I knew, but wondered where he went. It wasn't bad. A shiny broken down court.
Blue icicles hung from my roof overhang -- I wanted to eat them but was told a long time ago never never. A bronzed escalator. I went up. Crapintine missiles rode onto the streets and paused to shout out their cause. I fussed with the rubber handles until they were gone.
Paper ink launched on my face from my fingers hadn't a mark ever so dull before. Good mask. Like Peruvian monks. Caught in dynasties in a past time and monasteries on foreign ground. Knack of doing it good.
The cutter in the boiler room scared me. The loud constant hum and the warmth like a fire bandied together on a crock to fight the good out of the place. I was sent there to do my work. Asked on a sledge of rock I colored a tree. Jagged outlines turned out good as they straightened in the breeze shaded from the boiler.
The sandpaper was still in lack master's box, I kept a piece of it to play with. A salad day invention to groin out a player hooked on weasel touchings. It aged so quickly.
Tunes shaped just like the words it was humming: They cried out then slapped their own faces for doing it.
And when the paper dolls walked away they howled throughout the night. Stopping to check in the mirror to see if it was alright. They dangled from the ceiling in recourse; then woke up in the morning to find themselves in the middle of life once more.
When they dangled I wanted to tickle their feet, but I didn't. I was too tired. And too much like them to tell them how to fight it.
I've tie dyed their eyes. So they w/couldn't see my thoughts. That little piece in my bottom removed, it still dents and I sometimes feel where it used to be. Crap garbled into vats where it was cooked for consumption for the hungry. And poor. Lacking a breast lets throw it in and eat it. Frilly pillow to lay a head on, laced and embroidered so fine.
Optioned for a hand basket in which to lay his head upon when it dropped, be called the numbers. A grandpa ticking away his money to retrieve holy sacrament. Carving crosses onto silver goblets. A blume for the day. Centralized to the maintenance regions, transported infrequently. It slowed down. The caller curtailed somewhat, blasted for not being gone long enough. Dead cells on a scalp. Translucent victory. In inability to perform the numbers. In quiet reception. Loose tangents to hop onto.
The gates had a hole in them to see who bore the ground, and to keep out the lefters. To stand there pale and in the rain, waiting, was to be hailed. Inside the gates there were solvents to dirty your feet, preparing for the rest. In ambient mannerisms you lie down and look at the sky. It was to entertain; to be good enough. Over the ground, petals jammed the soil and it was for comfort, always expected, this time received. There is a further place that you want to go to.
Time passes it out of sight, away. Dregs to those who work there. I don't know for sure. I was only told abou tit. And reassured it wasn't a heaven. Nor a hell. Just a place.
Sop apple juice on the rags and wring them out, see it glide down the run path. A spectacle. Fifty cents to see. Chaulking a distance on foot, Wagnerian dreams. Gloating heavily at me that they make for awful demonstrations to the other faces who might be around. Strived in the beginning for nothing more than that. A crazed madman who speaks highly of you. The seepers who crawl. Civilized mesopotamia sweetwater washing up the dirty rivers.
The mud packed tight at the bottom giving rise to opaque waters at the beds. And the fumes settled there. Plastic hydros pumped at it -- they were there to force the evils out of the waters. The debris selled itself no deliverance. The mud tightened. I watched from a distance, hiding.
Play, play. They made a hole. It all came back. One by one I perceived their future. Plastic minis gone to hell. Shivering as they climbed out of the water, their faces swelled with vomit when they dug their fingers into the mud as a grip. Pollyanna typhoid ditches they were caught in. I ran.
Miserably. Not waiting a second to think about it. I ran. Scarring my face in the heavy winds. Jelly bread on my dinner table. Waiting to be had. Waiting. Just standing there, they drowned. They waited, they slept to their death. Charged in cesspool. Snouted against the ripples of urine from the little children who swam there every day last year. A pagan secret I fought to learn, a mastodon likeness in me, I crowded and hugged my nose against the glass.
The hairs that aren't bleached, they are fuzzy and dark. Growing in directions they abound to keep. Short hairs. Never seem to fall out. A tiny spot. A freckle stands in its way. It doesn't get any bigger, it doesn't change, in fire it burns. Shaved heads and faces. Crowning its glory upon its head, when it falls to the ground they don't bother to pick it up. Cast it aside. Saving it for a face that will hold it and wear it nicely.
Substitute bearings, the bump or hitting against the ground. Thumping in rhythm. Counting along, the numbers. Counting the beats. Rain on the window.
The little room was cozy that night.
Shoot outs and gun corrals. A peach pair of pants too tight, too long; carpeting the cold. Dreamers hazed their bags, covered in denim because they said they wanted to be there when it happened. Ran around in frenzies, they carried a gun to their side, just in case. Insufficient proof to my case of displacement. Festered puss of an infected blister. It crawled up my leg to my hand and remained there. Long, grotesque-like arms hung over the bannisters, the black arm reached out for me, I wouldn't come. The arms were so black and unhuman. I cried myself to sleep. Or piled on the covers so I couldn't see too well. A warmth, a cellular comfort in the rain. It handled me good, showing its monster arm. The veins protruded in certain motions under the skin. Mountain sceptres held the cream.
I ran my mouth silly. I knew what I was doing and didn't care too much. Slipping over the paper pieces, all crumpled. Too born out of the holiness I cherished. What little I could remember. A silly venue. Massing itself and telling loud stories of how the grand sections were made.
A knubby shell for usage to pound art in. Grievance Gag. Rubbish on the floor. I never wanted to sweep it. Piling as high in my kitchen. A bag never would do. Cellular structures in the wall shadows. The feelings. I stared more at the shadows, than the actual one. Like dancing, slow, almost. They gathered on the wall. Perpetuating the catch. Enacting it all over the walls. The arm. A prism. In my own stance. Bludgeoned beautifully, gently. The arms moving, a patter on the hazed-up wall.
And the thumping on the windows.
High kingpin ventures sour, berry thorns pouring form the escape hatches. As provided. Speculating and letting it all out, not a moment to think, a second to realize the mistake. A teller, a sniffle, shoved back to hide again and infused wheeling made it meek for the one mountainside. Buttons, one to push, one to merely feel. I had derivative duties.
I matched the other one well. I slapped the ticker to its ear. Such a duty it was. Cute animals heralded in the landing strip were just there to be decorative, a purpose had not been invented. The driver simply ran over them.
It was so hard to know. A need in return for gratitude they sought and gave. Being shelled, part of you thrown away into the bucket of leftovers, unusable, not even for sale. All the secrets diminished, they said.
Largess in motion. The beauty queen's tendrils piled high and heels caught in her train -- the flowing art she fell in front of. A sister smile, a parishioners pack around her neck. Dampness in her cheeks.
As she rode heavenly, I failed to mark her steps. It concluded her cleavage.
I sewed my own dress. Lavished. And ready.
Bankers in heavy heavy new tune pieces clamped around. Holding their boxes of faith, clawed in their hands. Cold and metal. Awake to be only asleep, they fooled the meeting, people didn't withstood, they made hoods and hid themselves, and their anger. Reliving a dip in moods, I felt better, singular.
A footlight. And dancers danced.
One expressed rain -- they went on. Ahead, or below, it didn't matter. All personal goals miraged themselves anyway, so power, no 'fessions. A goal. Spontaneous responses, the faces held victors as their captives. A nice sedative to plast the genres without destructing, too much surface space. So precious. They accounted their jewels as dear. Innocent prizes to the lucky. Grand baby. A gifter as appropriate, as a recital door gift. Hanging stagnant in hated air. Jewelry, jewelry. Caught between the door in roses, vases set about in protection. Laser victims. Cheapened by the flora.
Passing a seal dropped of wax to the edge of the crisp tallow. A marker to present servitude, lathered at the hallways or so perfectly comprehends its enthusiasm, peaked and measured. The glandular persona to create. Simple technology based structures fought hard and kept going in their cars, chased at roaming speed through the underground passageways.
They didn't know where they were going. A chase away. Balanced on a needle, barring high and high.
So slippers, a satin thread, shiny ornament styled by my feet, to run, away. I didn't want to see. So I didn't.
I shut my eyes easily. And drew a mountain. No, something better. I erased and re-drew. A cornerstone space. Hard of cement. It bricked itself, a wall. Encompassing the space, burned out of better times. The place renewed its company and drew the mortar thick and creamy for the sake of demitasse it had to also be fine. And so it was.
Melting in a pot, cleaned by hands of pure, it stirred and stirred away the bumps, air holes pocketed in their place. A neutral mixture, rather warm, getting warmer as the fork stirred it graciously, turning the heat up and putting a few droplets of water to the top mixing it in. Rising, rising. It bloated and bubbled. And was ready.
A potion. A gravestone. Love or no existence. To me it didn't matter. A spoon to taste it, or drink it, or pour it over my head, or sit in it and drown. The burden.
Holy lethal mountainous structure I cling to. As a notion to put in tool chest for a rainy day. Better things, better days. In striped drop boxes. In She falls. Go little one. Go. Fall in and like always be gracious. Humble.
She falls. And tumbles and belittles her dress up and down. Bad. Bad. Don't do that again. So naughty for someone her age.
Fall down. Go ahead. Go ahead. Do it and crap. And slide away. Break your femur, hear it snap. Crazed out, and shaked out, and bust open the wounds. Agony, simple One. Agony shall not be so bad. You'll see, you'll learn. The piss mirrors.
She falls hopelessly. Her little hand grabbing ridiculously as she tries to save herself.
You don't do it all by yourself, goddamned fool; here I'll send someone down for you. You can shit together and play together real nice. As you both fall. Together.
Or would you rather alone? I can do that too. I can set it all out and you can be nice for me. Grasp now. Grasp. Come on.
Fucking hellshit. She plays with me, her game. She can do that too. She fell. I think she knew the rules. When it's over she can get up and play with me all over again.
I look over the rim and see her down there. It saddens me.
The war hero, he was. Or a woman could think of him that way. Enlightened and regressed.
I dawned the niche on a barrel nose piece of drawing paper, sketching the ideas to possess. Characters born with a need to be gallant. They wouldn't fall. In the mats were others. Groping. They slang themselves in the cherries.
Gallant Man wouldn't conceive the motion. Caught in perfect notions, soluble problems, and a hero's dream. They had what they needed. Coughing, they placated it. Simple soldiers they were.
I wanted to be that.
Perfect and dual. Hopping around like a bunny one minute, raising my arm to attention the next. With a bronzed chest.
I could cry away the parlayed hopes, for all I know. The shrouded shoulders, and weak palms forbade me. Cheated me. Soldered and solid for the days ahead of me to hang onto, rather corpsed and bleeding.
Ha. I could nod simply and be amused.
I laugh at the things that come and go -- in declaration of shreds of nothing to claim, nothing held in my hands to scrutinize, not even a chain to bind those hands. Not a sure thing. No bruises from leftover lunchmeat, no Huckleberry fins next to me to yell and whimper all day from heaven.
I am fine.
I am going away.
A trickle in the lake.
Doubled and tripled and horsed around in the bucket. Whitewashed panties set out to dry in the unexpected rain. I am bemused. To watch her fall. Or to begin saying goodbye to her without turning around, I see the prodding in her eyes -- in her mind. Processing so utterly delicately. Shaving her eyes, so I can't see them anymore.
Tucked away and out of line so long as they vanish without clues. Chased into the rooms and made to stay there without personal supplies and food. They'll grapple so long as they live.
And they believe they will survive -- longer than they actually do. Like simple shit condescending.
Dead offerings. Climactic dealings -- I received them willingly and strongly -- to oppose nothing except dealerships that had to end in coming out of grips. Society vengeance to feel bad. To know what's left is salted and skinned with ugly shoe polish, simple legalities or fortitudes could they have been. Posh elegance in rash demand. Keeping clips from the motions, I went through to make an attempt to believe in it, to try to see why things happen. A question I'll never pose again to myself -- I haven't the strength to elope nor the desuetude to pursue. Cursed delegations, formed in the hope to construct a little gainage into structures tall and steadfast. In a consulate of victims. Good ones. All so dear and non vacuous.
As a commodity on the Exchange. Valued in percentage points in journals who did that sort of thing for their living. The mariners sailed over the lake gracefully as I kept watching. Changing face only occasionally. To travel, they bargained, and knew well of it.
I only could change my face.
In damaged ways. Thought of it. Again to be my bearer on those items I can not throw into the trash. A levied ball to throw and miss the basket. I coudn't've missed -- at least not too often. I'll believe what I want. I'll mangle my hair until it goes bald.
Getting the goods, every afternoon, I stir a batter around in a bowl. Conscious of my frown, I know how to look. Sacheted and mustered on jelly bread to gain weight, be fat. Repulsed and a dishtowel to sit on, acquaint myself with Simple Soldiers, equipped for fighting. Or no. I'll take a pillow and smother someone.
Relished liars, and graspers, and lack masters, and age old rivers it'll cross, and grope. I'll do supper with it. Substances combined into succotash to eat and swelter from the heat of the oven, masked into vomit. Jellied or canned in a product so worth announcing and heeding the wisdom of the careful. Creepers smack me. If I do it back, I will dissolve on the floor and a silly mess to look upon and have to clean. In disgust. Balding resistance of pulchritude I clean my own little silly mess.
Doggies bark and lick the floor, to help me remove the stuff. I pat a doggie's head. I bellow in communion. I cherish hatred.
I ate a fat round steak. With a fork and knife properly. The way it should be done reliably into my mouth. Kicking aside my shoes, dodging any compendium that may arise form the afternoon. Not really listening to any of the worthless chatter. Shaped and hopping and leaping. Crocking. Pervy pervy. Dearie dearie. Drag me with lust.
I shoot up. Gobble Gobble -- and lean back.
Posing relics and shot up too much with the stuff of juice liquids I cured and sealed away form home, in an intuitive glass container. Pure. I'm sure of it. Good dope. Silly dope. Mask taped around a wire to hold it all in.
Lathering my hands, I washed good. Crisp, tender moments, such difficult situations grasping for some desperate thing to say. Or utter under my breath. In no particular pattern, molten metal slides down the walls as though ecstasy was produced, or a noble cause is helped out, funding the way. In the roughest terrain. Heated spirits morning, not knowing it is only to move closer. Bounded by legality. Shaking at the thought of it, the awful connotations. Did it hurt, did it fray. At Christmas times, we all weep.
We shed not a stitch for each other. And the moments go on. Creeping in for some more madness. The cords sever sometimes, and we thought it would be forever; it crossed again and again -- too many times. Sheltered. God, for them. I left them not a remembrance each time, or speech to ponder. Except dull useless inanities whispered desperately. For something to say. Formalities and crap. To use up time, to make ti seem al nice and the way it should.
A piece of leather. I already had one. Such is no surprise. I don't care. I guess I did at the time. Putting eyeliner around my eyes so someone might see me. It cost nothing. A piece of insurance, maybe health insurance. Cancer insurance.
I ground the corn meal and make the bread. My apron where it should be. My hair tied back the way I was taught.
Suffragetting it. Curling my hair into nice bobs of curls so I can prance around and look weird, to be caught off-guard and rather placid. Single headed projections minded entirely defied and constructed to the daily momentos from the news and bulletins tacked up on the boards in digital letters. They chronologically strive to go higher than they can, a straight arrow up. Like a bullet. Digging a pretty monster into her own grave; it was somewhat self-effacing. I landed at home, was shot up again. Like a bullet. Hounded off my desires on the afghan which fell off the minute I looked at it, off the table and onto the floor in a big heap. Dowsers witched their sticks to see if it was water. Old men. Didn't have a brain in their heads. They walked there, staring downward, their graying hair short and frizzed from perspiration in a hot moment. Previewed from their positions in life. The old men hobbled around on weak feet, squinting downward to see through failing eyes. Their last buttercups were shot.
Lifeless. Maybe dead, I didn't know. Someone should have checked to make sure. Like dead skunks.
Switching their muscles in one last reach. To someone, or something maybe.
I dig my fingers through the dirt and come up smiling. The sweet dirt smells good on my fingers and all is said and done. A mountain.
In bloated persecutors and mommy traits.
I fly right out. To hold some faces hostage and kill them one by one and watch while they bleed. To pinch and pull. And see. And know. The last words, last looks, everything shoots up into colors and leaves. All so dead. They leave pennyless. I take them all. They can fuck and hold their babies to their bodies, odl ones alike, and they won't come away amiss. they'll creep and burden me and love each other while they wait on me.
All their little fingers'll hurt and their diamonds I'll take because I want to. A pie waits at home for them to eat. In second grade all of them were good little children, they used up paper and crayons and saw the baby dolls in the drive-ins at Christmas time. So fine. And they hurt. Bedwetters and pickle faces. They stand there now, willing to shove their fists in their ass to save themselves. And I'll kill every goddamned one of them. Just because I want to, or to be able to stand up. And walk away.