Judith Goldman rotten oasis Treachery abounds, look inwards! Your bird jangles its small swing. You're getting sleepy, very sleepy. In a vulnerable tyranny. Leave for now the marksmen to their desolations, they ruin everyday life. & luck can't do anything about the undying devotion of the undead, putting their backs to the bus shelter while crumbs still stick to the dishes. I guess someone is a king of France & apart from whom nobody is a king of France. Same rockstar, different poem. I like icons & the toxic halos of figureheads, I like to beat people up & rehash among the swan. I was born in captivity, having fucked the right people, thick in the France of it. The uniform you design may still be stripped & not in some pleasant mannerism. I guess treachery abounds & scruple keys the addressees out of their shining wrappers. I guess gin relieves the need for whiskey, I guess I can think as well as talk. Come to think of it, I spoke to your exo skeleton. It had been sacked for cribbing a back salary from your stunt double. I watched you chewing & the human body is a great mystery. Sun, look out for yourself. Embody your own adaptation. You've got no corner on fire & marauders upbraid those vehicles invisible to them. Nobody is a king of France, licked all over like a stamp, my every garbage at the actual border, making it, making it over, taking up the slack. The bottle broke in your bag & you're getting flammable, very flammable. Luck knows nothing, peels down like a stocking & I thought, why wait any longer, & found myself caught in the breast of the beast as it staggered to carry me up the stairs. His clothes are dirty, but his hands are a sumptuous pyre. what's so perfect about a stranger, the greasy smoke of being swallowed up or disappearing. I can't carry the remainder. |