Tuesday, August 18, 2009


our shoddy tell-tale signs, reminiscent of so and so, really are at their clumsy best, we’d like to beat (the) silence but it doesn’t seem justified, we could launch into monopolizing the edgeways, there’s nothing like injecting some fitful fiddling into this standstill,

we wake to collect dust on the outskirts of unprecedented and unpalatable invasions that counteract the ruins of stress and walk a life deprived of uproar with a patchiness to speak of, that interrupts and erases the drone of buttonholing

our textual hand to hand divided, striking the surface and bringing to rest a jumpy sun, we shaped the rhetoric, something more than making it up, to run as water, a regular occurrence most remote, night-pressed

lines were marked with the results of optimism a thoroughly arbitrary value lending sense significance, image sensation keeps soundlessly up-to-date, to go on empty long before the radar finds us

the outside may look somewhat demolished, which could shorten our forgetfulness, but without winding up surrounding figures boiled down yet mysteriously kept fast, our gradually made up fate, day after day, makes the wrong kind of arrival and you believe them and only at this stage does intention dent the scales

we headed for the extreme north, beyond the north wind

beyond throwaway discourse, not learned either, but removed from attack, cleansed, scarcely stated