Furniture in the afterlife is dated and is not ergonomic. Everyone hovers so it's OK. There are very few castles in America, and it is true that nothing new shall ever be created. That everything that will ever exist already exists in another form. This painting bearing savory harvest brush in my mental landscape is only commodified earth, tones and scent and thickness from synthesized or unsynthesized, but bred from ground. 5 by 5, all day long, I know this.
Confidence is easy without risk, very paradise. I rang the midi bell and it cannot be unrung. But, this is not rocksteady. Frequency warbles, lenses whir. I'm hyperblossoming all the time, so life itself is not entertaining enough for me. My wealth of sexual store credit. The highest owed to me – shit –heavens -let’s not devolve into superlatives and hyperbole.
So over by the quartz quarry, not unheavy glass bricks tangoed, and I laughed when one thrust the other
into the mountainface. Threatenized by the spectacle of sameness, of this partnership: an ever-cracking glacier. Best to rid it. Unburden yourself from cloud nine. There's a tenth cloud. It is on a pedestal right behind me. On it sits: "I don’t know you anymore." Zip your defensive tent back up.
A fake muse onrushing, and trying to separate a fool from his dollars, prescribes me an app. This aggregates the stages and glories of me into a rectangle with gloss. Just as the ground is broken and crunched into vibrant, pliable doses. There is a painting, and there is a painting. Pound some salt if you’re addicted to the struggle. The June gloom. Go raise a barn or something.
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