It’s a light in a dry dispatch, done away from, the theories in the junk, dusted & tagged, rapping awake the message from the ferns-- “if it is light, let that be a crying repetition, formerly introspect faults in shaded catchword willy-nilly singularities coaxing the raining loss from the measured undergone” -- fragile, no? fumbled like a pullover seems sometime alight with laxity, not too slumberous, small next to the unfolding displexity, to start the smartlearnt unlit lightly, a time neither safe nor circular, bound toward its irreversible tainting, each one’s own history, unfailing-- that makes it a meal, or a maim, or a mass of lanterned wastrel science under-become by their just insouciance, a vibe de-blip brunt forcing burial into time, time into pits, pits of their unmade life-- ants on Venus, varying their routine, place an incongruent list of programmatic social upheaval beside the pillar on the balustrade to opine peanut-encapsulated furroghs, an opine-like situation-device fault-imploded, backlit by the social coping, caustic in the ant revolution, yet sated, Venus at an unswart angle revolving and clothed, a clothed planet never paralyzed, its peaks dents in the groan of gastric internecine cosmology, a guide for the thoroughly moisturized tourists, they tell the story & then they leave to tell the legend, & then they leave, having exhausted their collective nothing, widely, some of them have been bit-- yet it is not back at all, that fanning out of sanity found in fatal thinking, solids more timely than saints, saints?-- sacrifice --the luckiest of them drown pseudo-cyclical specificities, dampen their motes of sorrow-spun shunting in a meek sound environment of bell-lacking bench-strewn upper partials, thirteen-colored & secret, the lands in the not-Venus of light awry, autotoxematic machinations of cosmic causistry causing small bluntings to the ant-imagined axis deer doing donuts in the fantasmic materialization, they are thus driven into madness, mad deers all over the place, mad in the razor, mad in the guise-- what ideology already was, deer society has now become-- the gods when they go, which they don’t, are dialectical informatics arranged radically on the hunter’s scopes, a blight informs their brisk cognition, a blight of crying repetition, these god-workers on strike, getting fat on counterfeit proletarian justification, becoming lyric, almost individual, where the taps played in the cistern stoke the post-Ayler continuum awake, rattles & cameras, baked bads on sale after educationary exercises masking the more-fake-than-thou excess of the canopied canapes, truculent & sad, raiding, forlorn, in a ruckus, borrowing pills, affirming, lush, clackety-clack, click-sent bedevilings of this awkward minute, returning to the regal listening, someone’s little essay about something shattered like a desire, your desire, shattered like someone’s little something about an essay-- these are them, those deer offered bananas on their flight to Bermuda, but they don’t want them, being full, yes, of canape, and crying repetition has become their bailiwick, tho they cannot find institutional support for these interests, much less an avant dissonance to soothe their not so savage fawnings-- if it fails -- the natural cycle of sleeping -- if it fails -- the wicked mice of plus signs apparent to the mashed open retreads pulp-lisped parental softenings cut apart by the paste & parrots, we crux, we are shared, like lettuce, like merits, like the brains in the skulls beside the airs on the grounds above the goings, that, there, those, then, thick awake refascinated leapings in a letter, or something vague, something almost not there, a something garish contracted from contact with fragments, & so we are in the dark alone, like everything else, & maybe there is some light. Maybe we can see it.
