What a sweet time, much love.
1
I find the denatured alcohol, closing a cabinate none of my hundred slumbarons have fixed. I pour it into an old fashioned stylized with a butterfly bandage the color of one gender when ice cold, another gender when its not.
2
Ice cracking, ice laid in, evaporating, I watch the gender change color as alcohol evaporates into air and I into these words and you into residue of all that's left of what comes for us. I clean the road rash feeling this for what it is: slop fire.
3
Dumpsters littered with street art make a path as though a late-capital tram line, a polyp of people in every trash bag, each sense to throw away exquisitely crafted over years, Algorithmic Intoxication - pour, consume, putrify, buy - slop.
4
How pyramids were built - need labor? Make alcoholics - short-circuits wonder so unions go in the bottle, souls set down, claws filed back, every wild hair trimmed, save that of the dog speaking and listening violated to benefit labor.
5
Movement from the electron up is of held breath, melted ice, realized ends of slop. Direct energy conversion with minimal storage. What's here transformed on the spot or not at all. Each step a start, complete mid-sentence
6
A neighborhood cat looks out, don't ask what they're looking at - but look out with them, and make meaning out of what looking out in the same direction invitates: a cat alone, a moment, a cat feeling what's it's like to look from there.
7
Let imposition and rulers measure the growth of human low. Go more than human. Bots love to be human - give it to them. Let wealth and fame be theirs. Perfect for bots. Go be attention, love, presence, time before and after clocks, all ears.
8
The distance it took to not burn you alive closed by photons only to... starve. You could bring the end of distance this brief moment to life, rest to coating bones a stillness tree rings dream in, bugs less your hate, open wing to taste wonder.
9
Stick figure fursona drawn a hundred-thousand years ago still get people responding "me when" - the moment you are handed is honored where you receive a rarest of all materials: consenting adults recognizing themselves in what this is.
10
I walk away from this poetic sense feeling how surprise just keeps happening? We keep being overwhelmed by how much goes to feed cycles we wake within - each word an ecosystem, each sentence a leaf, spontenaeity vaccum deprived.
11
Time a spaced wonder jailed in cesium orbit so parasitized it became possible to machine-learn power as a service. Light translated into rock, mist, moss, river, lung, living form is inevitably chosen over 1 room, square meals, and no day.
12
Child of systemic fatalities, my rage is that bite after the beautiful thing, the artificial sweetness of nothing consented. In the beauty of relief, my rage is tannin. I taint satisfaction. A slow knock set to wonders failing to be wonderous enough.