your electronic memory of
Oscar Wilde collapses
just then the sun
the future like a gun
afloat in cream
bang film skin piano

your memory hangs in my
broken window like a saxaphone

forty somethings smoke and flirt
on a cruise ship floating
toward a blissful retreat
where time has lost command
and the radio has blown out
the morals of the age

On the beige flanks the burning
white-bricked six O' clock sun
On roof and eve's tops
water boiling by the
wind
who licks in and shifts
the walls of pure cobalt
Each of us is a
monster without fault

I will sit brooding for like half an hour
And do nothing
Like trying to ovulate into a jar
I'll blow smoke and stare at the sun
recite Russian poetry to insects
and do nothing

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Computer accuracy is suicide.

Crash to stop in time, make any sense of it?
There's no one to blame

Lie, rot, consume ashes of burned thought.

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Talking about it makes it worse.

Serious study ... ... ...

Action noise figures.
Equal to a fasting

Serious consideration ... ... ...

Excessive knowledge
Excessive explanation
Excessive detail
Excessive Interpretation
Excessive study
Excessive Excesses
fatal.

Sharpen you bury yourself
ink pen
institution of barcodes
all is null
excessive null
in school
fatal.

She lives in a figurative cube of lard
A clear turmoil tunnel channeled like
a river of boiling fat filled with shards
of shining glass shattering her flaccid
memory lacerates each emotion or
turn into adipose gluttony

I wear my heart on her terry cloth robe
the brain she was born with is the
***** on her clothes

Bomb her mouth
morning never comes
for *** enhanced fluoride

I am Ether
and it's hard luck these days
with nobody making you famous

There is a lead cloud pregnant
with memories worse than burns
raining like errant artillery

I have to bite with my best teeth
to rewind pleasure and fossilize
painful reputations

You put murderers tattoos on my
social membrane by a diseased loop
Obviously I run like a rabbit and

backflip and rip in half the sky
Anonymity boils
Jarry shoots his ephemeral pistol

outside the theatre at fictional
Paris of your half dream
these ghosts circle your nerves

bleeding christmas sugar
gasping kerosene charisma
atop the peak of repute

She's not like him, She likes to say
When the phone rings arises a crises
her speech is saturated like grease
behind her eyes