Please now, give a nudge to the service of an overdetermined wind. Steal away. Only a pond resists the appalling descent of the barely functional last resort candidacy. My version of the Len Hooper gravesite is modeled after the rhyme that the distal sanitary epistemé opens upon wanting a solid skill prototype which will instill a meaning to wake the dead in a vicious Thelemic holonome. A chosen approval strategem, a withered autumnal stockpile of abandoned time-travel tropes: these too are given a wide berth in the olive rendering to come. Come it may. A cone, not a tray. Tender severings will send my teething proxy-by-rights into a lopsided orbit one musty June evening in imagined years yet undone.
Cease now to carve a badge, but do crave a bridge to the thirty-first century. The first fire-code deceit: usually reserved for the all-but-nominally dead. We don't approach these gambits with anything approximating pleasure. The pressure, though, deals a wig to Jesus while the string which co-habits my coffin greets the burning nutmeg chode with a shrug and a bounce. Always was. Never is. Send a punk on his mission and relax. Re-inhabit the mist. Half it in a poor '"Yay, my God is Fred!" proclamation, and rejoice, for all is ____________ !
_____________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment