Languidge

I slip the word onto my foot. The word lies taut under my back. I don’t anger run run run run run pumple pumple pumpel rangel. I need like the saw, a weed whacker, a hedge trimmer? That’s it! Hedge TRIMMER! And it sparkles in the sky over adoring eyes :: Bits of the structures of letters drift away toward the window. We had them, but we had no need to keep them. We disassembled them, and they migrate languidly to find new homes, for they are the essence of structures and have no need to settle but do so as they are needed by ones such as us. The black marks clump and stack, building recognizable order. We can clump and stack to make messages on the window, or we can drizzle wet sand from our fingertips to form crooked, fragile monuments to idolize our idleness :: Thin trumpets proudly show off their kindergartener’s back surgery finger paint… Over lazy hills more morbid pigs slide landscape luge lessons into our dreaming screen face. Impressive was the counter suit. And it all tumbled out, fractions and hypotheses, unfinished experiments, and a Finnish carp lode instructor. Poring water over it may help. Bleeding reflexes own our afternoon awning. Independent nose lender peeping through holes of our conscience, leading us into barking alleys where brown justice reeks sup to the sky… and squeaks… crushed by thousands of tons of what(ever) matters as Earth swallows, implodes, caves in, envelopes and eats ourselves. Tasty wish to seem like I ever always want to seem and remember how I want.