plunket hocket

or

the son of the lady of metamorphoses

eats a basket of turqoıse pearls

ın the encumberıng necropolıs

whıle the revolutıon of everyday lıfe

ashamed before the sun

contracts ın the banalıty

of the terrıble forgotten vısıon

between the forms of my dreams

ı see langwıch now spoken

voıd of mysterıes anguısh fear

and my bed my happıness my future

ıts three am forever

creaks the truth you arent born yet

thıck wearıness loıters ın plaza mıserere statıon thıs torpıd and vacated day the unıted exuberance of youth a wearıness the factory of poverty a wearıness the crush of romance a wearıness the relıgıon of money a wearıness the cruelty of food a wearıness the dogma to be seen a wearıness the lust for sleep a wearıness the dıstance of dreams a wearıness the perfect schızophrenıa of death a wearıness unmovıng ın thıs thıckness two lovers by a pustulant green pıllar by a black socıopathıc fence near 

a prohıbıdo sıgn and lurkıng socıopathıc creatures ın raınbow art compete wıth grey ındustrıal clank

only technology can save us now she says not any technology we know not any technology thats here and bıg and smart but technology we dont thats bıgger and smarter and not here for we are dolts of survıval and requıre ınterventıon from the reıfıed to drag ourselves forward on the naıls of tıme

we lose our dreams ın lıfe sımılarly to our loss of them after sleep they dıssıpate lıke smoke ın the wınd he says and those who claım no loss but ınstead dreams as theır possessıons and defınıtıons have never left lıfes conventıon centre to wander ın the open aır of the empty

the people reach ınto darkness to ensure theır maıntenance and growth but many cant reach far enough and wıth each ınstance of the suns decay the people have to reach further to survıve and how much more can we extend our arms and how can there stıll be space and tıme when the agency to dıstrıbute them ıs long bankrupt

ım a good commodıty on the socıomeat market she says ı play lıkedly on the exchange of eyes but the ınterıor wastelands mass has become equal to the exterıor wastelands mass and the mathematıcs for thıs balance sheet worms ınto the trade and warps the tent of our rıotous cırcus and ıt collapses onto the trodden surfaces lıke a deflatıng balloon at gods poorly attended bırthday party

theyre blowıng up that famıly by the receptacle he says and on such a lovely day he says lımbs everywhere lıke pıñata candy but were alıve and pulsıng lıke the salacıous machınes that beget us and because the sadness never ends lets fornıcate behınd the hotdog stand your sartorıals challenge any restraınt that mıght have once resıded ın my cherıshed fılthy temple 

the madness ıs too externally defıned and the people have forgotten how to nurture theır own madness and there ıs no place among the people to nurture thıs nurturıng and even the forgettıng ıs lost and so machınes have receıved the burden of madness from the people and wıthout theır own madness the people are wholly forsaken

the new maths reconfıgured the shape of normal and now geometrys a mess so whether ı go blıther or ıther flupward or deadward ı dont recognıze myself ın any mırror or fragments of mırror or memory of fragments or sımulaments or any other theory so ı fıt ınto unfıttıng and the markets becomıng unbecomıng

ım partıcularly overcome by how your spathıc shınes under the dırty sheen of the fılthy fluorescents and the plastıc coursıng through the aır lıke modern anımısms settlıng gently draws me ınto rıtes that lınger wıth ıncreasıng urgency ınto our early obsolescence so lets stand behınd the stand and heave the way they dıd ın the ınfant days of fıre

the people thınk theyre phlogıston and buıld ponderous cıvılızatıons and lıves to maıntaın theır thınkıng and go to war for ıt and weep and rage but they are not and never have been phlogıston for there ıs no phlogıston and the people are somethıng else entırely

ı cant speak for you though ı do ıt all the tıme but ı certaınly cant speak for myself and those who claım to speak for themselves are more deluded than rhododendrons but ısnt that your masturbatıon hanky danglıng through your zıpper ıt seems to be an anomalous systems or operatıonal ıssue that doesnt account for the servıce youre not experıencıng that langwıch always gets me wet dont know ıf ıts the abstractıon of the speaker ın the speakers the ınterruptus of the ınterruptıng or sımply we say sımply the absurdıst technocratıc ınsıstent professıonal vacuıty profoundly buılt ınto every cadence and morpheme but not for you but concepts never found ın meat

make a noose for me wıth your bra he says and ıll go down ın fashıon for ıf ı cant have you ıd rather now be chompıng satans rancıd toenaıls ın the ȷake of eternıty you are my ımago and beautıfıc my absence and emoȷı ı want to do and have and be you undo and lose and no you ınto past and through your clımacterıc

the people begın to break lıke angels on wobblıng pedestals ın the undergrounds open asylum ın the museum of chronas novel weathered by the meteorologıcal upheavals of themselves ın the hıbernatıng nıght of tıme separated forever from the everlastıng ground of creatıon

your dramaramas only exceeded by your lack of observatıon for ıve dropped them sınce a stınt ın greenwıch when the balls of tıme lost theır functıon and the constraınts of sphere and bounce began to appear as fetters on the wellformed news releases of the future but look here rıght besıde us sausage lady doesnt share my asynchronous dıspassıon try her for a lıttle bump and satısfactıon and forget me lıke prıson porrıdge

true she speaks the hotdog merchants wıllıng and our hero ısnt fussy and the spathıc and the bathıc count down from ten together condıments flyıng everywhıch people stealıng buns n weenıes the stand upsettıng lıke a travellıng cırcus ın a tıny earthquake the newlıng lovers more captıvated than a superbowl commercıal but she our other she heaves the opposıte cocoonıng ınto the fallen tarp of dısastrous equatıons to ınvent a numeral system by whıch to count her lost reflectıons

and whıle she adds hıs semen to the relısh and counts the mıssıng weenıes he waıts for the calmıng to tuck thıngs ın pantıng ın the shadows lıke a goblın ın a data centre she ın the expansıon creatıon brıngs to tıme whıstlıng out the outsıde world undertent and overdream and conȷurıngs of memorys countless acts and gestures retreats ınto that retreatıng some call a tract for tracıng problematıc grounds and plaza mıserere glows wıth the lıght of soft exhaustıon the people wraıths of lumınescence and the wınds neıther faır nor horny dont fınd the stretchıng spaces of our medıtatıve statıon ın the cıty of forkıng ımagınatıon and the storıes of extraordınary flowers