reypulque

I am sitting here with the window open. I am sitting here with the brand burning down. I would stare and stare, if only your skin was there. The thunder that rumbles up from the gravel, the story that glory would have you declaim. A burble of words hung on pieces strung from the storm outside, rain on the rooftops, a mouthful of petrichor and...
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It is the song that ends at the nearest knuckle to your nose, the gauntlet tossed at the point of impact, the spill melodic at the advent of your mouth. It is the song that meets your fingers in the persistent chill, the bespoke faith of tattered breath and leadened heart, word upon word until the spindle clatters empty within the idiom. In the spin...
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This is placement of the degradation, these are the words with the sun in your eyes. The signal beset with subtle errors and abrupt glitches, mistakes in the punctuation amongst the other unspokens and unspeakables, static stippling the map of the mind. Plodding disambiguation as the shapes reassemble and the stencils assert themselves, thinking the world aloud as we slip on fitting skins, our ways...
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The dreams don’t shake off with the day still hours away, with the weary work of shoulders and knees, with the clamber of flesh and bone. It is still, though not quiet. An atmospheric hum, the low growl of pavement and tires and the vague machinery that grinds down into clockwork and case studies, slabs and wires strung across the breath and stir of the...
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The stumble comes along with the stipple of the stars and the mumblings of mud, the lilt as the phrase does the falling, this ache displayed as idiom as fireworks crackle and the train declaims. So much comes in the blunt almosts and the odd sparkles, the glimmer just beyond the horizon line, the world revealed in flashbacks and jump cuts as the echoes fill...
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The ritual reiterates, the stagger in the shuffle, the gaffe in the deal as the heel toe slides and slides. The eternal bluff waiting on the call, ashes ashes then the fall, the gait beneath the gathered weight. The slow to the circle, the wobble to the spin, the blazing branch lit from within and spitting dizzy nonsense to set the world on its ear....
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The scene opens, or at least the line starts to unwind, the sense of a spindle as the stylus finds a scratch. Again and again, the metaphor hewn from allusion and skull static, the old song despite my lack of even a single turntable or the clout of some hefty hegemon. Here on the precipice of the vast decline, at the moment in the fall...
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The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the light by the mattress, now the meandering of the ash. For a moment smoke tattooed the space between the lamp and the ceiling, some slurred slogan, some mumbled oath. This the air, this the light, the sawed off end...
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It’s the next time your eyes meet the sky, the sirens sound and the dogs all howl. Such a sharp eared season with the summer on loiter. Such a sad sighted dream between here and the horizon. The numbers stand in stacks as the ceiling takes its time to settle, last long lights on emptying days, headlights in ribbons in stretches and strings as the...
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Again it is the slow sweep of green against the crawl of cloud and sky, the wind on its hind legs kicking up the dust, this strange drawling afternoon of shade and swelter set down in the particulars of these posts. A happenstance of rhetoric and idiom, of summer and sprinklers and the breeze borne whiff of water as the heat of the day gives...
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