Germalion Tape

I wasn’t remembering that management function where various chalkboards fucked themselves for the sake of begetting minor apocalyptus. No, my ancient fingers posed like dead trees on a burnt vista, their wreckage like a kiss you were born lost into. Outside, there was no outside whatsoever. Corpses banged into each other like busted puppets, like crispy policemen’s shadows. Did you see that skyfire where our mothers wove their dreams into blankets, meals, and sex made secret by its furtive timing? The way the clouds were her lips. The pressure inside her had to emerge as half-spoken trance sounds, words never formed, moments never happened. I wasn’t remember the industry function where prisons presented their poisons as lethal parades. The advertisements for euthinasiac figments of anything that might be a dead life, a rotten uncle, pigments crusted over with mold and tobacco ash. We had, long ago, a kind of agreement that encompassed the present opportunites. Now, the skeletal remains of animals are hacked together as if they might become a pet, a parent, a god. Some demon wandering lost and dreaming of consuming every modest future for the sake of exploding into stars and dusts.