Carol Mirakove

 

so not, "They were in love. Fuck the war." but "They were in love and they would level the war mongers." from WALL roughometer gentle pending [you] angel lady stocking officials in their separate test tubes cross-tied my legs to maintain mediocrity straight-pressed by priest-tongues they plow perfect yield signs still her [slash] blessed paradigm strip her of tumbleweed she doesn't want to lay a lovely groan / scratch in the unifying roundness lead- based presents in the killing jar lustless and wonít ing turbo towards the center line & ejaculates wiping the music score making the worldsafe etched in the refrained / masturbation un paralleled in prodigy who is mani fested & heaving in targetless leanings red-letter the lounger getting off the draft table gridded by exceedingly pretty traffic & salvage her from becoming the common ass by stanzas in voice-overs hurdled & pleading for a comma store & a sale on rest or macrame at least in the form of a shawl with no shame attached I am lazy and good at crocheting the again of nothing to do but think about lovewars & pronouns in their felt-lined redundancy presents man down the block breaks down scared that man stayed inside the radio scared that plastic and everything else scared that the time to be scared is past and everything else including that red illuminating living rooms volumes thick a throat clutter tends to comfort except when too close or uncontrolled then go around the block and wait for a big gap the city telling me thereís more than one body here telling me to flesh it out and that the imperative is passť as if a mouth could do anything but windscreen the violence of speech and everything else springing dreams of self as silly putty over a mattress and everything else in between cardboard ties jacket up the manís back little bows tautribbons barrette for the TV mantis placing her neck on the guillotine shudder the sidebones and rest thumbing fuck you I pray for a big soundtrack roundspecs I buy into all this suede & shifty cameras schoolkids hoop the gap dully hop the tar & not-tar hugging the drapes that could be a sound barrier kicking on purpose bricklayer lay me synthetic sick and reactive makes two tautological authors more profound or just as false-- animals a perfect disposable brute fact of contingency burns them away like slag spit hips and the primary obvious as sloppy apparatus

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