Nameless Acquisition

Warmer than the crushed car, seven desks assault a teacher. Where first some letters smoulder and burn, ashes must later form animals, and these animals address you from within your own localized transmission vector. This is not a test, not your father’s prose, and has nothing to do with literature. This is a hand inside your own hand, that is not your hand, and I’d like you to give a big hand of applause to the fingers now, the lost mothers, the nameless dead.

Once, before anyone spoke, there was a bird. Can you understand that? Then there was a wall and that exploded and became your dad. What happened next, oh desperate spectator? What was the combination of the safe in which was hidden any adequate description of starlight? Had anyone ever actually taken even a single breath without being shatterf*cked by the general ambiance of prestigious clustermaps?

We ran as hard as we possibly could, directly into the face of time. That had a lot to do with snakes, for reasons we have dedicated wars to elsewhere. We carried the moon’s most delicate elicitations as our own inward waters. The lost were uncountable, and were almost always inside children. The fierce were unexpectedly delicious; and after those toys had their ways with some kids, the remains got up and turned into weapons in the various likenesses military whores. We called them by puncture description into friendships. They called us by numbers.

The lost mothers. The nameless dead. What was left of that teacher by sunset was largely some blood on some dusty desks. Who knew?