a night at south edmonton "common"
The desolute emigrinings sloll ever dorewards - it must be the frigitation of the Monleys.
The Monleys run inconsolate in packs of heavy block, padded up and up and clawing surfaces, any blank flat shapes to scratch, they stare and scratch, at each other, at the malls. Funerals speed by, so fast and into dusks that sink and suck unconscious newsprint grey, exes squaring off and spinning as a chain of gears, keeping them hemmed, hawed, their voices freed to ghost in quiet salmon flora fresh from the docks. Laws adrift and rent outside the television fences. Prostitutes chuckle at their food. Animals tongue barbiturates. Red for death, green for hysteria, and it begins to snow.
The Monleys keep long ribbons tied to empty desks at home: they'd float away. Important ledgers blotched with melting snow lay piled in ruinous heaved from windows. Monleys follow them down. On cigarette accompaniments this blizzard tunes itself and sings the evening poison. The lagoon has frozen in. The giant organ is dismantled now and hauled to thaw in pieces. The city changes twice and twice again, the buses scream and halt. Broken windows peering out to dare for panes. A concrete turd sits squared and ready in the park. An obscene mouth lets loose its steam. All Hamlet's parches are borne to last exits, splayed, and split.
The Monleys know the poems of Century. Plantation charms pop the bulbs behind them actresses faces in hideous strobes, oh for just one seat to conform. Behold the parenting that's done here! Lordly dull connections all alight in humming interack switchbacks, ring roads orbiting the clothes born in fluorescence calved to term and slaved to machined, orange, clean flat squares. The buildings will not sit beside each other, a mess of iron filings on a shaking tray. They are magnetized in repulsion. The radios won't work.
All along Cacophony, what would you name a road that won't begin, the rearview mirrors don't just shrink the truth these days they outright lie, the gemini grope dry-lipped at sugared opiate, and everything below the knee is tarred in snot. The news (remember World?) is sold with drugs. The periodic table is engulfed in internecine war. The ants have all the honey now - the beehive's where the Monleys park their cars.
The Monleys run inconsolate in packs of heavy block, padded up and up and clawing surfaces, any blank flat shapes to scratch, they stare and scratch, at each other, at the malls. Funerals speed by, so fast and into dusks that sink and suck unconscious newsprint grey, exes squaring off and spinning as a chain of gears, keeping them hemmed, hawed, their voices freed to ghost in quiet salmon flora fresh from the docks. Laws adrift and rent outside the television fences. Prostitutes chuckle at their food. Animals tongue barbiturates. Red for death, green for hysteria, and it begins to snow.
The Monleys keep long ribbons tied to empty desks at home: they'd float away. Important ledgers blotched with melting snow lay piled in ruinous heaved from windows. Monleys follow them down. On cigarette accompaniments this blizzard tunes itself and sings the evening poison. The lagoon has frozen in. The giant organ is dismantled now and hauled to thaw in pieces. The city changes twice and twice again, the buses scream and halt. Broken windows peering out to dare for panes. A concrete turd sits squared and ready in the park. An obscene mouth lets loose its steam. All Hamlet's parches are borne to last exits, splayed, and split.
The Monleys know the poems of Century. Plantation charms pop the bulbs behind them actresses faces in hideous strobes, oh for just one seat to conform. Behold the parenting that's done here! Lordly dull connections all alight in humming interack switchbacks, ring roads orbiting the clothes born in fluorescence calved to term and slaved to machined, orange, clean flat squares. The buildings will not sit beside each other, a mess of iron filings on a shaking tray. They are magnetized in repulsion. The radios won't work.
All along Cacophony, what would you name a road that won't begin, the rearview mirrors don't just shrink the truth these days they outright lie, the gemini grope dry-lipped at sugared opiate, and everything below the knee is tarred in snot. The news (remember World?) is sold with drugs. The periodic table is engulfed in internecine war. The ants have all the honey now - the beehive's where the Monleys park their cars.
posted by gibletquesterrs at 1:57 AM
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