quick recognition of inside eternity

by Matthew Wascovich


PART I

death fast. do you want out dragon? have you put a
dime toward the future? black spoons and yellow
liquids rammed into one television. don’t be so
decided. don’t be so decided. please read all the
warnings. it’s the country vinyl. looking into your
body, you know absolutely and lovingly that we will
jeopardize our faith.

we will undercut each other. we will do what is
paranoid. do what we are told. we will play a role
in storage. we are dependency. you can’t forget it
now. you can’t hear his sky. you can’t remember it.
you can’t hate no more. you can’t regret some skulls.
you can’t save yourself. you can’t forecast the
frost.

you can’t understand a jaw harp. you can’t find the
time. you can’t search and press. you can’t rule and
clash. you can’t compare it now. all day bombs.
there are messages looking from the tombs. there are
messages looking right into a oneness of light.
there’s a note in your eyes. there’s a reason we are
low. there’s a place of knowledge.

never, this is not very long anymore. there’s a
bitter in this exception. let’s let it go. we’ll
meet again. we’ll meet again. provocateur and
zeppelin. harmony and a belt. the closer closed and
californian water ghost taunts for womanhood fluxing
the leather. i’m not jealous of your cameras, i just
want to lick the skin to be some sort of hero.


PART II

los angeles and her extra flesh. we hear our actions
providing for the fluid. the touch of esteem. pox
debts. hey 52 comments in my lap. whistle in berlin.
a manhole stepped upon gonged in the market. the
beards have united and it’s sort of lost on him that
fashion is stunted, that she did it beautifully.

there’s a ring in the hollow. a hole in the summary.
a repeating of the hurting. a scale of conjunction
does it notepad. your wings are giving believable
life as holy as fake and the rats are trashy.

we’re trashcans. your gunboy cornered whispers lady.
the glass house ensemble played four stunts of edison.
four stunts of edison and 35 minutes above the lake.
she doesn’t care about pictures of you. a hovering
gallery in which we strip underneath paintings.
village service hawk. he is in a car completely
right. i met you and we love. the future is a crew
of blowing the kings into tornadoes. our phones die
with meta-knowledge. bow to her. bow to here, to be
there connecting row after row. an angel’s psychic.
the maze of streets and light of a candle tunneled our
swamp pass. these tide rewards looking at a body of
veins listening and slipping away. a tight slope
knockout. a stifling in triple clothes as the
basement washes out.

guide her post. recovery is sinker. pour it rains.
the city is empty and each side wants more depravity.
a midwest nose grind. inventions are what questions
and grafton is a dead bird. a medal worn. an adult
at the dumpster. the truth first. a visible sign.
thee normal fish pounding lice. off lice, we are
farmed. hurt. feeling. it’s crashed and alit. this
hastings rock beach. england is to one as one is you.
a singular needle that she sees double with. we are
a climate of falling things. a course. we are a
broken clearance and it’s nice to some with heavy
stickers and their sex of musicality. a program
toward an ending. a phone blanker rings teller. you
can call out perfection but only get scared. you can
calculate with your head in an ass cloud. you can
reward for talking like talking in the mind.

PART III

a boy screens shirt. what cost to that allegiance?
these trappings are of whores. tomorrow is a bunch of
feathers in your mouth. it’s a self in an
all-encompassing mirror that points anywhere when
nothing little seems only big. hands quoted.
westlake is a clueless maze of rained roads. a war
bone ache. a covered marrow as birds roll grass
clippings. the dogs bark while america in this year
that it is becomes voicelesss, goes between
maledictions as catacombs impose. don’t worry about
me because he doesn’t trust either. we are chumps
with loose mouth gathering our chartered group,
destroyed lame walking thru a graveyard.

she spits the selfish in a sci-fi landing. spits the
writing of man made movements. the background
instruments all nod to be forgiven only common
colourless and less known.

crater of roof. we are gentle in our production
predicting square miles. the males catch us railroad
heaving. we are hefty and printed. touch now,
presently in this hiding, sweet dipping into your
savings with so many more ideas. the endeared stand
up because god’s done with shouting.

fixed cut sea foam health grime tunnel polite skip
short now remain stone. return ramps to which it’s
the opposition whereby we comment. pocket presence
wasteful nurse of the cubicle. thin line operator
honey port.

PART IV

work check and her pounds of paper prod the girl
liarbird. you walk fast (uncaringly). sick woman
walks with old man down kenilworth in a schizophrenic
blitz.

the kissing was left on your throat. you knew last
week but i didn’t. you defined everything without
knowing the movement. get ready for leaving. the
pants shut their seams when head rested on bicep.
what sort of guitar cuts to the artful men? the
northern people say manchester is forever.

an animal is optical and victoria is in the bathroom.
the nipples look to freedom. he donated copped hours
to the less worked. there were days off in the worst
place. the first worst place.

a chateau thwarting seats stretching to her. we camp
at the ledge reading slang and each other, looking at
our marks. a family of lashes mimes a hummingbird
loosing its job. let’s drink clear liquids and
confidently scared talk later.



--