the state of the pasta or the pasta of the state

just this side of everything. i’ve got knots and curlicues to throw, dashing grins and spotless champions to the ground. gourds of righteous, yes and no, blue the lines of and between these precious days. falling down and rolling slow down the shortside of the summer sun. intrigues and catchall phrases that leave wastrels in their nets, quivering with some unconsuming fear.

omens and flat prophecies–uttered in the wallowing ululation of some feisty crone–converge, sending up a spray of tribulation or maybe just some irritation, a chance to scratch that offending itch. drawing scribbles in the dirt, scraping away the muck that’s grown on glass and floor. it’s become treacherous, navigating these shoals of discovery, no? unc’s gotten some pages sorted. dirty newsprint, smeared and smoky, fetched out of some dull attic or storage closet. be careful, now, those pages, yellowed and cracked, won’t stand for anything more strenuous than one or two longslow glances. get yer filthy paws off, monkey!

there’s more knowledge lost in cracks and flaws then we’ve even breath to speak of. or even just lost in plain site of all the traipsers strolling by.

….

with what strange tools might we excavate, tear out the hollows that muck about underneath the pipes and wires and caves withal? carve out some little corner of pasted together collage or mosaic. hell, i’d even settle for a tapestry, pointing to some old story half-forgot.

like: the bloodshot scorpion crawling out of the woodwork. ghastly shrieks all ’round. “there’s a tasty dish”. colgrave the accountant fumbles for his pinata. if you know what i mean. but i don’t think you do. vermilion shoes and wreaths of sangria sloshing about in the old clawfoot tub.

like: zykeephone dreamers plopping down their wet cash, their clams or sawbones or whathaveyou, for great gooms of greamed gooses. clothespinning those flooded dolors to the fishing line papoose. drip drip drip.

like: howitzer? howitzat? i fear for the peaceful sleeping all the world round. when i think of… when i dream of… when i… it’s all the screaming sound now, the dashing of all the innocent thoughts and hopes. i find myself transmogrified into some leering villain, twirling that black, whale-waxed, blood-caked mustachio. guilt-by-association, methinks.

like: juice for the gristmill. feeding those bones and pulpy limbs into that gapping hellmouth (“mind the gap. please. mind the gap.”) watch those fires burning up. all that brainmatter strung out along the poles.

like: the dreamer failing to imagine something, anything, more useful. settling into some kind of drear mundanity, past flaw. who wants the junk marked down to sell? they can’t give that shit away!

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