An easy one

Easier than most.

Boom boom Sunday morning after sleeplessnesses

in the the of wasn't

a chorus of gummybear laughter accompanies
the books reading themselves (it wasn't me who thought of that at all)
in pompous dampened voices (a frozen thoughtless moon).
Preferring in our leisure (all huff and puff all in and out all wasn't wouldn't disagree)
not to speak at all but! condense deliberation.
stitched right there (bullseye) the convex folds
our browsshape by provisional convection.

all the
(detached sinking?)
while we were
deeeeeeply din sis tant less... (yeeeesssssssss?)

but wasn't found our estimating eyes
goggled with convincing cheekbone stretchwork
baiting contemplacency's translucence... (enough already)
no
never in the the of wasn't could one ascertain
diameter between our headlined legibility
and technicolored drools obsenity.

cold one

it was a cold one, but not yet cold enough, look all we know is that when certain songs are playing, we realize that it is true, we've not quite rid ourselves from all those remnants of hope yet, I mean look here, we're still writing about hope in the shadow of the dark president, our words don't find ears anymore, but eyes, logical eyes, yet today we watch movies, tonight we cook dinner, tonight we dilute our blood with the knowledgable vibration of necessary pleasure, we can't get it out of our fucking ears, so let's not waste time with words full of hope

there is a colder way, a colder way between those noises everywhere telling the lying melodies of peace and pleasure, a colder way underneath the faces we detach from between the hopeless light of days, a colder kind of money even, as dry as your watermarked cheeks, they've finished burning, they're in black and white now, and if you stare at this page long enough you may hope to experience the emergence of some magic eye image buried in all these important angles, but please don't waste your time attempting such a interested gesture for you will certainly be disappointed, nevertheless your eyes will bore themselves under even the stupidity of another inbox of emails, and there you'll be, tricked again into searching for what must be there, what you don't care to see, not using the green eyes god gave you (but who would take the time to capture such a notion about your eyes anyway?), yes you've left them out on the coffee table and there you are without a care in the world, a reverie they might call it, but why use such a pretty word (it's beauty determined by some fraction of its foreignness no doubt), why waste the vibrating time of three whimsical syllables, that very time shackled into articulated sounds, why attach a pathetic name to that time which your mind has not the care to endlessly reorganize, that time which your mind has found itself creating, has discovered and secretly indulges in as a crucial byproduct of that tired articulation of endlessness. don't give it a name, and don't aim your deadly thoughts at inorganic matter

that teary eyed moment before I deficate

allows me to grasp the handle of anonymity here, sobering and lengthening myself

no necessity for ashtrays in the easy chair of lonely leather officiation, it's working out well

and even better than I wanted to imagine, having wrapped my psychic knuckles

around glasses of aromatic beverages of all singular variety drunks

we were all there without souls except lisa maybe but born by a mother

whom also as all mothers flicks open the eyes in the morning
regarding the time to wash her hair in the kitchen
her eyes will be open and her pajamas will be green fluff, blue

i think she's watching me butter my sandwhich in the kitchen she holds in her heart

those big ideas have nothing to do and you wouldn't be awake for them if they weren't happening

grown beef

the purple flower,

is full of power,

and so are vistas,

(no, not baristas).

And with each day,

They find a way,

to get the job done,

under the yellow sun.

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basket

shadow

islam/istam

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historic donkey

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Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations

or

kol-ut-shan

or

is there in truth no beauty?