Our Accolades Sheepfold

This madness bequeathed to us in a series of mysterious lives. Peace in our mediation. Relish in our narrows. Psychotropic bug ramifications and redemptions in mandible masking. Tenderest of mercies to you inundated in secondments of bark straps—our series of contradictions sinking. We flounce apart.

You say: Have you chips? Did you
Continue the fare linkman? Did you
Extend the narrow another geographer?

I reply in telepathic somnambulism.

Chorales do what corals once did before massive die-offs.

We are three dénouements apart. Aqui no se salva nadie. And no one gets out for a song. But the same shoelace disqualification distinguishes us, and appeals to insensate gods. Petrified. Ossified at a charnel house. A marriage of sorts that binds us. We are mad with midden crises and defiled by our DNA.

We shed the stymie of the lighthouses. We are blind in flusters. The deterrents of madness overcome. Our accolades sheepfold.

What I’m Reading:

the cold bird tells the monocle: mouth got no lips I’ll kill myself
but the cubist tells the cubist: i have invented the chief-of-scratch & I am his boss
the boss tells the boss: boss

— Tristan Tzara / “Metal Coughdrops”