on edge and impudent

convincing a dogfight-like statistic mesmerizing
infantilizing possessive of thee individualist
on edge and impudent
two young woodlouse butchers
sewing odd pieces of wax paper —
caring for a rusted motorboat —
no skippers at any of these helms!

tinctures resembling continental plates
shifting and ferreting away sickness —
but sickness is our innate condition!
says the pasty faced one with the junk toupee deterrents work says the leathery one—
keeper of incremental disclosures and sewers— remember thee good old days of political respirators and incendiary chlorine essences?

oh the warmth of consent and release —
all woven seamlessly into the composition faction of the daily expedients — reminisce
of the manifold fraudulence pepperpot
and cheez whiz orange coiffures —
has anyone reported on the Sabine Women yet?

what’s up with them?

these are the angst-ridden days of the butt frisk — weighty sedentary mongooses of seminary-actualization and undaunted showpieces —

it’s the age of no swelter addendums addenda —

painfully immodest
conspicuously unintelligent
meticulously unempathetic

little men…

What I’m Reading:

When did we know for certain that we had no future … and how was it that we hadn’t died from sheer nausea? 

— Jacqueline Harpman / I Who Have Never Known Men