We are weak echoes, made flesh, from a Ghost’s last shouted wish. Sheryl clearly guessed life’s meaning as this answer to another query gassed through her on a hazy Monday morning. With intuitively-gathered and well-sharpened fun facts, she could easily puncture boyfriend Ted’s toytime theory: We’re just forgotten playthings of a Child who grew up to be a blind and senile Watchmaker which takes a feeble, febrile idea and kids it with white nights, red clouds, pink noises— distracting effects to make it seem wonderfully original. A know-it-all who knows everything that sits on the level swinging just above “Nothing,” Read more…
Mary, mirror your lover’s error; pass the lipless kiss, Word without letters, to flow, sowing waves–no sound, dry witness, no bounds– Imagine the blue mute Singer, her green seeds growing a dirty ditty in all willing and open to cut the immaculate but immaterial cords.
Suicide is a coward’s way. Living life is another coward’s route. Cowards, the shallow way of all slouching, shouting about straights they deserve. Spit, momma’s sons of the night. Ladies of the dawn dye their cares in the sea of the city. Lives unreal. From dusk until sunrise, senses reflecting off skyscrapers stunted, tricked, gold capers light-playing metal, bricks, mirrors, errors lost in their design.