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Description
CHARLES TAKES LUCY TO THE GROCERY FOR MILK TO SETTLE HER THROAT AND WINDS UP AT THE BOTTOM OF A LAKE, HAVING DRIVEN THERE TO PROTECT THEM BOTH FROM THE IMAGINARY CIGAR-SHAPED WEAPONS OF MEDIOCRITY HE HAS OCCASIONALLY HALLUCINATED SINCE SICK LUCY USED TO PULL THE FOOTBALL AWAY.

I for strep take milk.
(Batteries to car park of ancestral sleet.)
“The torpid petrol, please.”
Everything's go- came from pyramids.
(Chunks almost-ice.)
[Nova dome ticking the tiny sands of eye’s mind’s time.]
Aftertaste exposed bittersweet, frozen.
Plunging a gray medicine.
(Inactivity, neglect man’s plumage.)
Is man’s seventh heaven cloud number nine mushroom cap feathered?
My felt point is to be unadorned.
I’m the cycle.
“By feeling dear, you see”
(Hole, life lack, urge, pine -purge automatic)
“Drolly the ides this time of year”
As if we even feigned to care and the hospital breaks.
Arturo breaks in bank.
(Despise)
Get auto to the station, a motor-wise home, the fluid new.
(Lacerating of arms, legs pinned to the column)
Is anyone directionless?
There’s cherry bomb coffee.
An engineer is filling in.
From cold sky morning breeds refuge.
Arturo is brain damned, going to fruitful obedience.
The broke, gone and full god should the sterile damn.
Pressing to the dinette window and pressure has no use and unto infamy.
“Of twelve come, have we any from Brussels?”
Arturo despises banks and at twelve before noon plunges gray medicine to wear his tolerance off.
(Father to the hive mind, craving magnesium bad and faint from the vapor.)
“I just want to punch through skin!”
One goes “PAPA.”
(A deep aftertaste of exposed bittersweet.)
Frozen, plunging a gray medicine.
Inactivity, neglect
Man’s feathered cap is man’s tether –snap.
My treacle may be lack of life, fluid.”
I’m the cycle.
“By feeling, dear, you see.”
(Hole, life-lack, urge, pine –purge.)
God -hazing with glazed orgy’s dependence.
True love shoots and scores nooses and twine.
“We, the Hat-wearers, have it!”
The wearers make bombs.
(I: circulation- a heartbeat.)
“Guess the progress was meant to be invisible, my pale looking LOU.”
(19-year old Arturo hates to wear hats of any sort.)
An automobile is quickly filling with sleet from cold sky morning.
LOU breeds refugees.
The plumage disguises the brain damned, going to fruitful plain.
The broke, gone, and full god should the sterile damn.
Pressing to the dinette window and the drink has us reeling all day.
The lie of the truth -many tried it.
It cost screwdrivers and hours under unshielded bulbs to the psychotic whims of metal god itself, aluminum expression on the clown-faced peacock.
Emblazoned on the blankets of ice are the names of those offered help and then denied three times before the cock got sand in it’s mind’s eye.
Arturo grinned, snow-crafted glaive at the steady, hoisting PAPA COLD over each colorful covered head.
“My skies had better be peppered with mirrors. I’m the cycle. Don’t sweat, my bald, irradiated darlings. By feeling dear you see.”
(Hole, life lack spilling like sand, urge, pine -purge)
“Devil, what this is? “
This is the greatest of its powers. This is the notion we have to dress up for the machine vain. It has of late taken to slumming the fashionable and wasted the poor. Not to mention the silent creature, its rainbow sheen, claims the posture of a would-be benevolent snowman.
(The front of the Beast no longer drolly.)
Upon having their tops removed, the former society of cap-wearers becomes an active mass dissention, able only to bellow maniacally, little hands like clockworks mockingly imitating the sands of time, the illusion of progress, pushes the Snowman into the rivers of Hell.
Its frozen gears no longer the broke, gone and full god.
Should the sterile damn?
Pressing to a dinette window the celebratory masses plunge a gray medicine.
“Throw your hats in the air and seed the hammers, boys! We are the cycle now!”

Eric Schreeck

Description
CHARLES TAKES LUCY TO THE GROCERY FOR MILK TO SETTLE HER THROAT AND WINDS UP AT THE BOTTOM OF A LAKE, HAVING DRIVEN THERE TO PROTECT THEM BOTH FROM THE IMAGINARY CIGAR-SHAPED WEAPONS OF MEDIOCRITY HE HAS OCCASIONALLY HALLUCINATED SINCE SICK LUCY USED TO PULL THE FOOTBALL AWAY.

I for strep take milk.
(Batteries to car park of ancestral sleet.)
“The torpid petrol, please.”
Everything's go- came from pyramids.
(Chunks almost-ice.)
[Nova dome ticking the tiny sands of eye’s mind’s time.]
Aftertaste exposed bittersweet, frozen.
Plunging a gray medicine.
(Inactivity, neglect man’s plumage.)
Is man’s seventh heaven cloud number nine mushroom cap feathered?
My felt point is to be unadorned.
I’m the cycle.
“By feeling dear, you see”
(Hole, life lack, urge, pine -purge automatic)
“Drolly the ides this time of year”
As if we even feigned to care and the hospital breaks.
Arturo breaks in bank.
(Despise)
Get auto to the station, a motor-wise home, the fluid new.
(Lacerating of arms, legs pinned to the column)
Is anyone directionless?
There’s cherry bomb coffee.
An engineer is filling in.
From cold sky morning breeds refuge.
Arturo is brain damned, going to fruitful obedience.
The broke, gone and full god should the sterile damn.
Pressing to the dinette window and pressure has no use and unto infamy.
“Of twelve come, have we any from Brussels?”
Arturo despises banks and at twelve before noon plunges gray medicine to wear his tolerance off.
(Father to the hive mind, craving magnesium bad and faint from the vapor.)
“I just want to punch through skin!”
One goes “PAPA.”
(A deep aftertaste of exposed bittersweet.)
Frozen, plunging a gray medicine.
Inactivity, neglect
Man’s feathered cap is man’s tether –snap.
My treacle may be lack of life, fluid.”
I’m the cycle.
“By feeling, dear, you see.”
(Hole, life-lack, urge, pine –purge.)
God -hazing with glazed orgy’s dependence.
True love shoots and scores nooses and twine.
“We, the Hat-wearers, have it!”
The wearers make bombs.
(I: circulation- a heartbeat.)
“Guess the progress was meant to be invisible, my pale looking LOU.”
(19-year old Arturo hates to wear hats of any sort.)
An automobile is quickly filling with sleet from cold sky morning.
LOU breeds refugees.
The plumage disguises the brain damned, going to fruitful plain.
The broke, gone, and full god should the sterile damn.
Pressing to the dinette window and the drink has us reeling all day.
The lie of the truth -many tried it.
It cost screwdrivers and hours under unshielded bulbs to the psychotic whims of metal god itself, aluminum expression on the clown-faced peacock.
Emblazoned on the blankets of ice are the names of those offered help and then denied three times before the cock got sand in it’s mind’s eye.
Arturo grinned, snow-crafted glaive at the steady, hoisting PAPA COLD over each colorful covered head.
“My skies had better be peppered with mirrors. I’m the cycle. Don’t sweat, my bald, irradiated darlings. By feeling dear you see.”
(Hole, life lack spilling like sand, urge, pine -purge)
“Devil, what this is? “
This is the greatest of its powers. This is the notion we have to dress up for the machine vain. It has of late taken to slumming the fashionable and wasted the poor. Not to mention the silent creature, its rainbow sheen, claims the posture of a would-be benevolent snowman.
(The front of the Beast no longer drolly.)
Upon having their tops removed, the former society of cap-wearers becomes an active mass dissention, able only to bellow maniacally, little hands like clockworks mockingly imitating the sands of time, the illusion of progress, pushes the Snowman into the rivers of Hell.
Its frozen gears no longer the broke, gone and full god.
Should the sterile damn?
Pressing to a dinette window the celebratory masses plunge a gray medicine.
“Throw your hats in the air and seed the hammers, boys! We are the cycle now!”

Eric Schreeck