the intention, the discomfort, the wrong chair

i dream them
that's all. i don't write. i dream of being a dancer arrayed in her finery.
i dream of being this dancer aching with doubt, oh how they just want to write science fiction !
a marvelous operetta follows, decked out and super charged, all the while reclining on her couch of pillows.

i dream of the cities i'm building as an ace architect, made whole and functional by my cunning designs.
i dream of rock stardom, martyrdom and the parting of limousines for me
i dream of craft and vehicles, sod and spray
theres a hobbit house in the perfect valley, there's a kitchen and a bath
studio and room and guests of course and board the likes we've only dreamt of.

this is the thing that wretches

to write goth fiction for kids
i can make believe anyway i want to
all this ? that's me okaying
green light and ample cheer to the boxes and prisons i excrete

sheer bad
we know
next
oh

i have morbid thoughts

my head is screaming i think that it's you my dark desires hidden true
to become a wounded martyr whose love he lost, a sick tortured prince high a top a twisted tower looked down upon the small wounds he thought he inflicted. his sad little lies wrote silent and slow. he wound his hair around his neck . he can never be sure, he may always have wanted

report the reporting already
live it up straight with words
screams from the throat

reporting fails when quivers in the field occur and they occur
comely models all
hero matrix
older guy
safe chaperoning for your child

the musicality of it of what
the dinosaur of this end in thought
the winged double spin no naught
and here we go in the morning

the simpering sing conflate
the national hymn to the state
the previous sin the marginal win
the squirming all night at the gate

and here we go a rockin'
rock
rock
and here we dock the talkin'
STOP !!!
HERE WE GO IN THE MORNING !!


xuieeeee ctryyeeeeee bweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
for fucking pages
ripping dry throats out


page turn


ok. no really in the seventies this shit would be printed with browny ink on stiff hippie papers
hiding nothing

to sing at peak voice to weave a bundle into radio
that opening
is hard torn to stay closed
the last thing you want to do is pull the cord spring the cable










jesus christ that's bad/. i mean evil. this is reduction spelled out. this is sheer banditry over anon
plethora plea pan pox
andea nor ka tox ka tox
meery a stone shot sling divorce
nary a horse to boast or bow

stinging shot blocks
brought thin vaneer
singing cock clocks
let us cheer ! who ra !

guitar

sinking in. i think it's ballet. i think i want to learn how to dance ballet.