This is the one where you marry the creepy boyfriend and support him in his run for nthinking that although the half-light’s flattering, soon    and you cannot make the kids walk all that way. Valediction, my guinea pig friends, is visible through the mesh, is the hish of the hem of the couture train she said hish just once and he stepped back and closed his mouth, the hutch fell open, All hail Queen Flower   We have a language, and it can be understood. As we herd so shall we be heard. Sores are a sign of mites. If the earth is good we will run and our toenails keep their own care

I’m in word. I’m in word and on safari on an apple. I write the colonial state and cut it so it’s on my invisible clipboard. I mean invisible to me. and then I get colonial state advertisements while I’m on safari. this part is the antique front, still a little bit funny because it’s still a little bit dumb . like gestalt interpretations from a trainee therapist, or valentine’s cards from an estate agent. there’s still room between terms to think of metaphor. but the apple as a whole is smooth and pretty clean. a lot of surface, not much you can see to aim at. or your aim’s just that good. actually I forget I’m on safari almost constantly, that’s how close it is. I’m not hungry when I’m not eating. like I never stop breastfeeding. hand warm and a bit wet, working away at the trigger. 

wants to know if ears vomit, if elephants get blood noses, what happens to the moon when it’s raining, whether he can die holding his i-pad, why he won’t be able to see when he’s finished dying, what will happen to our house and all our things when we’re dead, when does living start, why isn’t Ian in New Order, and is it tomorrow now? 

sorry about the cinderblock arms. 

The tea is lovely, with its heart glowing red in the sunlight. Threads of liquored heat spin slowly through, and films of haze peel off one by one.

At last some relief in an image. An onion, hermetically sealed in tupperware, floats through a sound to the shore of an island. Maybe ‘hermetically’ isn’t right for tupperware, but for now there’s the privacy of the word, its neutralizing effect. There’s Bernstein praising the privacy of Ashbery. There are tall silver hedges, that’s a different domain. Privacy’s where it all happens and I’m not sure I can afford it. I want a shelter but some are welded so to fool the inspectors. So then I’m the inspectors. I’m police. Alarm is ringing through the sound. Salt fluid’s leaking in, amniotic to the onion. No, neutralizing to the onion. It’s incredibly tasteless, this whole conceit. So then I’m my horror. I spring a leak. I’m completely open to current events. So then it’s time for the octonauts. Vegemals, prepare some fish biscuits for the large predators. Tweak, how quickly can you construct a new octopod?

An onion, sealed in tupperware, floats in a sound - sound meaning a gunmetal night with islands like clouds on a felt board and elements shiftable like that. The water an edgeless depthless gunmetal night. There’s a soft slapping. There’s a soft reaching sound beyond the water, at the shore. It arrives at the same time as nearly unbearable silence. 

So I read the interview with D’Arcy from the Smashing Pumpkins, the only one she’s given in twenty years, and thought oh, she’s crazy, too hard to work with I guess, and because she didn’t answer the question about whether she’d kept playing or not I thought of course they’d be wary about including her in the studio or the tour, but then the next thought was what if she’s right, and the one after that was fuck them she’s right! they’re pigs! and a real band – a band that could really save you – is one that would configure itself around its weakest member and find the music that would lift that member up and forever unfold her or him into a studio of welcome.