the day after sliced bread


10 Responses to “the day after sliced bread”

  1. the first hard crust of living out take to the cleaners with rice and paper felled like quizical leaves fall over akimbo fucking like a sun’s spring gauze

  2. motion sends skywards larking and flouting its phonogenic breasts hitherto and wherever; a soporific solipsism almost fictional if not for words as if, if not, nor as, or if not as. we change the hieroglyphic apperition for that of

  3. unbearable mnemonics, cards stacked in a flame of limbo knickerbocker as clear as the tiles of a pristine prism or similar glass see threw overbound whiteness and sheets for ghosts

  4. stranger than odd, how fictions bones immortality with free echo. as if writing was a purse or another thought to collect collaging like the oddity of happening not! Boxing is the strangest metaphor for sanity and trees slip like shoulder punch to fake the hard lit terror of motion

  5. motion is living and living doing. there was no thought ever we relished this foot work in poetry the bright hand or the flicked eye pulsing in thwart visas for the connundrum of being one. How could we not see it we were blind like a fifth echo the troubles of cleverness were bound up like savage mutterings filling the stilletto the cards of reason who?

  6. odd how

  7. STOP 4

  8. out of outness, immersed in granary, her soft flower belting like memories dance in find floating, cage of borrowness complied and answered a pillowed response to waking dinner calls lichen. we pushed monica charged the bell of realising, the 4 free hours editied by mercenaries compiled and quite recent autorial presidential kinetic as if nature contradicted time and time was natures appearance

  9. Her mind was kitsch as in shimmy or blaspheme evidential or residential cock and ball: a dictionary with no pages words corrupted by paper. fear was the driving motion the metaphor and the actuality the imagined actuality the reasoned inactive heart of being bling scurrying echoes like candles reminding her of the start of momories occurance. “Memory is too frosty,” I could not disagree.

  10. Often re done next and awful, escaping the page tacit and tactile we wondered where she resided, but the calmer I get the less acidic, the more I rove in some pre-rennaissance fashion uncovering the distance between my hair and my ear my lip and my hair line. She told her lover she wanted babies like in distance or distance vanishing into time. My take on literature, at that time, was its impossibility she didn’t know what the fuck i was on about

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