a masterpiece of nothing botch this unfinished rhinoplasty planet when risks submit to disappointments disguised in drag and the monotony merely the exotic butt-dialed to death I dare you time fingerpick the instant we meet conversant in a stockyard of complaints carefully laundered and set out with the chance for showers we cello today property count the names that we refuse to let run away when even observation becomes violent and omniscience a loss a masterpiece of nothing this creation amounts to destruction and the mowing down of civilians to prove our wisdom only official opinions without room for renovation criteria’s not a source of jubilation a paradise of crimes and counterfeiting missions encouraging the execution of sporadic planning that folds our calendar into origami automatic weapon expiration dates getting scalded alive the original quotidian orphanage one must assure the fetal conflict to carry out this deference to counting the commission for this tragedy stuck on repeat forced to dig a hole to place ourselves in and get squat over as ritual abrupt recession of the years weeks days hours seconds a round of applause for the impossible second encore for our illusions
Monthly Archives: October 2023
Louis Bardales
I've Waited For English And Cried For Spanish Never arriving at any direction, I had no other choice for I'd try to hear a voice and I'd lose a voice and mine So instead I asked a vine for guidance and it gave me a theater though, not entirely, only the air of a stage exiting my hieroglyph with enough violence to offend an empty hall Extending this immediacy of plague a mistranslation punches the eye of my storm's heart and triggers a screeching asylum by jumping off an imminent bridge and landing upward at the top of a fury where the freight's darkness is nourished by extinction and hello, I'm the mind pouring weaknesses into the void that begs to be unaligned A cry reads it's own adonis and weddings occur in the forest's doldrums In cold dais our sentences govern a space in the cigarette The flowering bulbs of harsh sighs warn of daisies pushing deaths from underquilt hideouts to foregrounds of tongues lost Believe in a century's fall then rise, tarantula at the end of the doldrum's day