metrical compositions

appliances and apparatus make me sing hymns, upsetting an obscure prophet. it dangles on the swollen lips of prisoner 1028, an ode to escalator walkers, entailing the kind of failure that leaves the steps in the opposite direction as still as the kind of failure that ends in death.

machines are making me itch in traffic, upsetting a girl I used to kiss. our kisses were a birdland in juggernaut volumes. can you relate. would you be my sudden relation if the world were ending like a worn-out vice, or the 1968 comeback version, a rendering where he couldn’t sit because the goods made him weak. we saw him there, even those of us who weren’t born yet, knowing there was nothing they could ever really take from him now. or us.

in birdland they’re singing sparrow songs, an utterance that causes some to bleed. don’t worry, they’re up to it, prepared with pillboxes, flight manuals, form 0364 — a request for better days. then the incident in the narrative again, empty ballpark acoustic. we step into sidewalk cracks, languish like millionaires who pray from door to door, and sing.