They don’t know the way. The grubby little knife-flank blew through the bayou of the page with a kind of a disregard for the traveling way. He dropped from his pack twelve pages, on accident, as his wings twitched along their way. There were many different cloudshapes falling apart into many different inken shames. A trouble the burden couldn’t prove, but they still floated down: flit-flit-flit-flit. In this way, nothing mattered. For the pages fell into the bog of the page and became soaked, and dissolved into the greater one. There were appendices to the reason you could not understand what you had written in the dream upon waking, which no one duly answered, and which did not make stands. ¶ The slovenly empty brains of the crumb police shant-gegnashed spilling recumbent-simple out the sides of their heads as they sang, “We are but line drawrings, in a night-mare, in a night-mare, in a nightmare.” And my shapes became your shapes as I was the narrator above you watching you describe for yourself the very different ways every eternity seemed to come to an end. I cannot pretend to understand, hold you. I cannot pretend to understand. I want a wealth of things for all you, say I, but I am the king of a land only I know, and nobody in my domain is real. Watch as the leatherbound books of your childhood go floating upward invisible into the sun’s swath. And the crazy days look brightly down again as if nothing ever happened. The crazed lazybones of a man who was once half-decent at writing now relegated to the state of such an imposter who can but scarcely arrange letters on a page in any sort of way that makes sense. Wonder how his simpleton arrangement of strange days does. Wonder how he feels spending all them in bed with his unwashed linens, going mad and numb inside himself, retreating from the light holding his hands up to shield his eyes from the rays. Wonder how a hypothetical commoner wants, what is golden, damned.
So then, hey, release all your infinite ink splurge. Become a slut for the rage. To upend every table in sight. Watch as the knights hedge their bets against the dying of the day, and scream and cry as the only setting ever of the sun takes. Watch as my books become your books. Hey. I know. Underfoot, there is the earth in its beautiful prying caking to mud trying to sink us up. Take us on, rueful ambiguaré. They host silences for common sense. Surely. The damned golden no-one in tents says to the outer yield of gross appointments, Surely! Something in the way must be a lesson to learn—surely! Surely, something I say—just one little thing—among all this sad drivel must make some sense, nae? Watts in uss trummun sense. Aye divest lamplight stints in the disarray night. While list-ning to Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly.” Come back, common night. Do not abandon me. Every word you write is a poem. Every uncommon lip’s twist a dripping limb away from lakes of light. ¶ Watch as Sin-Aether embery uncatches the fire ball of fright and moving backward in slowmotion unravels herself from the flowered dress she’s bloomed into so well. The night craving caves demit what’s unknown. Way down who knows where the hedges bet, against knights in soft caves listlessing. Come come read my nothing-sense like a spell. Read it out to your wards of high uprooted somethlinglike and watch them devour you with their sight. ¶ Try some wampum, willowed leering steel stiletto high-heels clacking on the pavement as Meenish walks into the lounge where all our fates play cards amidst frail cigar smoke. Let me get fucking high again. Drink like a drunk. Become intoxicated. Even Iv’s wurds know I’m slurped up. Know I’ve been taken past the realm for once-for-goodall. I become a preparation. The seed light doesn’t know how to handle on the last inch. What I’ve been made to do, who can tell. I sink out again to the outermost the thought returned the way-V base of noncommittal junction sprucing. I say nothing as a way of getting clear. No way to go no way to here. Ray down to light petrify coarse feel. High oxygen on the late whoever’s may. Descend dating iron become what’s only sun. Trail fuming high-regard lay down the grass only glued on but way hemp yards feel on twoarset feet. Nail perdime not travailing anyway. There is a necessity to do the things the things the thing anyway, son. Just to get the fucking words out. You cannot be sat here wondering all your life why. You cannot give over to the nothing all the time without sense begging for a shock to just once again feel somewhat alive. You know. I know. Bereft-in dispense who’s gone.