Saturday, December 08, 2007

Throes of Precluded Glory (20th century rubbish)

emotion crawled like a wormy caterpillar across the page.
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.

"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."

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