succinct.
brief.
triads.
my deliverance to you, the audience. four, five, six times? or maybe less. or maybe more. who's to say for sure? the man who sets the lure, who finds the cure. who knows exactly what it's for: us? or TV? or KO? so many malignancies. such potent patients. stable care wavers on the ledge keeping "unstable" minds in stabled places, helps alleviate the frustration brought by steel bars imposed on blue heaven. solid are our buoys built to handle human waves, most foul and vicious of all the ocean's offerings. yet our field remains overrun by quack-doctors, sons of Hypocrates, who do not concern themselves calming the waters. their prominence disturbs, distresses, churns, compresses. not relating to myself, really (because i don't, in desperation, grasp to insane notions of survival after contact), but relating to others plagued, plaguing others. suffering numerous afflictions; mental boils, soul-less snot, body rots. oh, theirs are the ways of He, then, so tumbled through vile mire! well, they're not my ways. our diagnosis isn't matched; our examinations don't mirror. such flagrant abuses of privilege cannot go unchallenged.
there's a pattern present in the present-past. lurking in history's annals, its excrement, the actions and people processed before rendered unconscious to life's light, but not its process. a development, to grant it label- no, -the- development, or one-half anyway. the other loops together, clutches to the subtext, hangs on from an angle not yet visible. this catalyst for madness, for absolute, pure-bred insanity, exists in the stablest folk. my contemporaries, as much as i can call those more popular and illustrious than myself peers, have a knack for heading the same way. normalcy, uneasiness, total functional shutdown, then a plunge under solitude's icy capillary. a single kick sets it off: our just-as-concentrated friend TV. or KO. or even GM (although its prominence in military minds holds no weight for those unfamiliar with the Great Dismal). quite a few two-bit stand-ins take the "ration" out of "rationality" and leave -mans' heads all itty. tiny, all minis culled. a small frame, holding small landscape. no human connection besides the observer's. it's maddening, to dissect portraits without people, to see an sea's speckles and no sea-boats. an endless vista, and nothing for context. watercolors abyss, abound on every surface. ensure your people protect your truths.
shingled verandas. rarity even in the south, like shingles boosters. to roost, her legs took her places - secrets revealed in that soul-spot previously elaborated. unconsciously, priss always said, tugging at half-placed strings, every movement jostling into the next. like a musician's rhythmic fingers, a writer's witty pen, she snapped into her motion, filing out the voided outline noticed by her vision. at first, no reasons for the changes, at least, no reasons she felt i needed knowing. not that i dug too deep. with aging comes a bell curve of superficial appreciation, and at that time my incline only ascended as her mounds sprung out. we split off a while after middle school started, in that old seaman/egg farmer fashion, but she cut off further than the rest and kept close to Nine's vest. i couldn't really stay away from her, though. follicle will-o-wisps and all that. i think we both knew what challenge she presented. as guarded as the forest's undergrowth, with matched vivacious under-growth. an avatar of life, of mama earth's succulent premium; smooth boulder pairs with cut plateaus intersecting. by the time we started high school, all i saw at the peak was us joined, rocking at the hips, magma dribbling out her lips. crude, certainly, but what else is expected from a frothing imagination? too late does that amorous mountain-love end; too early do peaks weather into craggy knolls. a homely reflection dissuades a young man, but keeps his elder intact, for gazing on images not yet fully eroded makes their memory all the sweeter. an idea leading to the ideal.
but shingled verandas kept her above TV, above forest guarding, and her legs knew better than she did, so she always found herself hovering at its precipice, the tip of Nine's tit. that's how i found her the first time, on the first day of junior summer, ready to escape away. cornered, auburn glistening over auburns whistling in the wind, eyes brimming with resolve. life-sap conviction, one of her unique traits. i can't say she spilled a drop of blood until the last days when she broke par and i broke pardons, but that sap coagulated all kinds of hurt before her four holes in one. she stared in my direction then, one heel perched precarious off green slate, the other's toes steady as grecian pillars. her eyes swept past mine, though. took interest in something beyond my plateau-shoulders, took her pupils, dilated, to a concentrated blackness. so clueless of Nine's vulgarities, i found reason for action in her supposed desperation. her hand cupped air, soul-murmurs slipping life out her lips in every mist-tinted pant. before her daze cracked, my fingers matched her own, my lips picked up the excess spirit leaking away. suckled from the wellspring.
and i say i'm here to return to course.
discourse, of course, is the best force for going anywhere but where necessary.
that ends today.
there's a pattern present in the present-past. lurking in history's annals, its excrement, the actions and people processed before rendered unconscious to life's light, but not its process. a development, to grant it label- no, -the- development, or one-half anyway. the other loops together, clutches to the subtext, hangs on from an angle not yet visible. this catalyst for madness, for absolute, pure-bred insanity, exists in the stablest folk. my contemporaries, as much as i can call those more popular and illustrious than myself peers, have a knack for heading the same way. normalcy, uneasiness, total functional shutdown, then a plunge under solitude's icy capillary. a single kick sets it off: our just-as-concentrated friend TV. or KO. or even GM (although its prominence in military minds holds no weight for those unfamiliar with the Great Dismal). quite a few two-bit stand-ins take the "ration" out of "rationality" and leave -mans' heads all itty. tiny, all minis culled. a small frame, holding small landscape. no human connection besides the observer's. it's maddening, to dissect portraits without people, to see an sea's speckles and no sea-boats. an endless vista, and nothing for context. watercolors abyss, abound on every surface. ensure your people protect your truths.
that's what pulled priss roof-ward.
shingled verandas. rarity even in the south, like shingles boosters. to roost, her legs took her places - secrets revealed in that soul-spot previously elaborated. unconsciously, priss always said, tugging at half-placed strings, every movement jostling into the next. like a musician's rhythmic fingers, a writer's witty pen, she snapped into her motion, filing out the voided outline noticed by her vision. at first, no reasons for the changes, at least, no reasons she felt i needed knowing. not that i dug too deep. with aging comes a bell curve of superficial appreciation, and at that time my incline only ascended as her mounds sprung out. we split off a while after middle school started, in that old seaman/egg farmer fashion, but she cut off further than the rest and kept close to Nine's vest. i couldn't really stay away from her, though. follicle will-o-wisps and all that. i think we both knew what challenge she presented. as guarded as the forest's undergrowth, with matched vivacious under-growth. an avatar of life, of mama earth's succulent premium; smooth boulder pairs with cut plateaus intersecting. by the time we started high school, all i saw at the peak was us joined, rocking at the hips, magma dribbling out her lips. crude, certainly, but what else is expected from a frothing imagination? too late does that amorous mountain-love end; too early do peaks weather into craggy knolls. a homely reflection dissuades a young man, but keeps his elder intact, for gazing on images not yet fully eroded makes their memory all the sweeter. an idea leading to the ideal.
youthful experience prioritized.
but shingled verandas kept her above TV, above forest guarding, and her legs knew better than she did, so she always found herself hovering at its precipice, the tip of Nine's tit. that's how i found her the first time, on the first day of junior summer, ready to escape away. cornered, auburn glistening over auburns whistling in the wind, eyes brimming with resolve. life-sap conviction, one of her unique traits. i can't say she spilled a drop of blood until the last days when she broke par and i broke pardons, but that sap coagulated all kinds of hurt before her four holes in one. she stared in my direction then, one heel perched precarious off green slate, the other's toes steady as grecian pillars. her eyes swept past mine, though. took interest in something beyond my plateau-shoulders, took her pupils, dilated, to a concentrated blackness. so clueless of Nine's vulgarities, i found reason for action in her supposed desperation. her hand cupped air, soul-murmurs slipping life out her lips in every mist-tinted pant. before her daze cracked, my fingers matched her own, my lips picked up the excess spirit leaking away. suckled from the wellspring.
only later did she say that TV's endless tubes enclosed us in our touch.
