Conversant
transistor merchant jumpers cram mouthfuls of potato jam where their mainstream
monocles filter out combined moments of genius testers. Never so ambulatory as when the music infuses
and so it’s a horrible death to sit at a desk all day long, chained by
porcupine tentacles and breathy landscape drum circles. Still, he got up and
walked away, left it that way forever although it followed him, trailing not
far behind, but he never looked back and didn’t succumb. The gravity was real,
especially in the evenings but it was something else in the mornings and so he
tried to fly by singing his wings into being fantastic under the awnings of
Brooklyn salesmen wearing lipstick and gorgeous smiles, grinning ear to ear,
causing the initiated to fear what might be hiding behind the façade, the
showcase windows, into the shadows but something lurking within called him in
and he was never ever seen again.
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