In the House of the Hangman 1087

Who believe they are entitled to heartbeat caribou, to footfall, to hubcap. Who have a bicycle showman at wishbone this. The squeaking was determined not to be a danger by the respiratory therapist. It is a companion more than a condition. The Dumb Messengers of the title are also children. They come from the other world to tell us something, but instead we teach them language and, in consequence, they forget or become unable to tell us what the message is. I am chinning against a dark sky to strengthen my arms. “What a beautiful storm! Infinite thunder! Wishing to be home No wonder.” OH MY GOD I have been staking my will to survive on the possibility of getting some sort of actually worthwhile drug today and instead I have 10 mg doses of Hydroxyzine. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. Honestly, truly, I know a lot of kids with personal pharmacies and NONE OF THEM have anxiety attacks like I do and I can buy fucking Benadryl at Rite Aid, GIVE ME SOME FUCKING BENZOS. I NEED THEM. I PROMISE. In the engine silo, there are no dinosaurs. A “Zombie” is a small yellow flower (such as you might find in a lovely, peaceful garden); the “Sea” is a leather armchair (wooden-armed, like the one in the living room — for example: “Don’t stand on your feet. Sit on the sea [thalassa] to have a quiet chat with me”); a “Phone” is a salt-shaker you will politely ask to have passed at the table. Plus, a “Motorway” is a strong wind; an “Excursion,” resistant flooring material; and “Carbine,” a beautiful white white bird. This is inside your country bolt on, oxygen feeding the cellular. As [elapsed turquoise] around the wrinkled eye. Tourists here are on a steady diet of art consumption, and non-breathable sweaters. Referred pain emerges in the shoul[der] behind the scapula: you are left with You confuse the other word for carrot with the other word for onion. You don’t know the difference languages taste, though “synthetic” comes to mind. Self-portrait transfer. You arrive on a Thursday or This is an inauspicious way to begin, inside your country bolt on, oxygen feeding the cellular white. As you sleep metaphorically, you try to understand the dorsal aspect of the body. Though not your first crossing, you are on the outside, inside this once removed zone, just beyond the cit. Underground you hear languages not easily recognized, and the sounds are muffled, as though submerged. All around citizens rush to their destinations, minding gaps and such. You are caught between two lines, wondering. When I sit with bare legs on vinyl, my skin doesn’t slide, it squeaks. I archive. I joke about death. I do not love myself. I do not hate myself. My rap sheet is clean. To take pictures at random goes against my nature, but since I like doing things that go against my nature, I have had to make up alibis to take pictures at random, for example, to spend three months in the United States traveling only to cities that share a name with a city in another country: Berlin, Florence, Oxford, Canton, Jericho, Stockholm, Rio, Delhi, Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Mexico, Syracuse, Lima, Versailles, Calcutta, Bagdad ... What more can be said as Don Quixote enters a sad rebus? REM Shoggoth, on the burning bush, mentions what is actually a branching headdress of chimes, or microlithophones sprayed with long-chain hydrocarbons and ignited (possibly by accident), while Ali lines the Theban boughs with graceful amphibious musics, frogs wishing to mate making a model lung. One evening the Professor presented a learned lecture on a bird-headed turtle boy whom he’d captured in Sumatra. It had to be smuggled off the island because he had no waiver and refused to pay duty. He spared no expense on the boy’s toilet and had imported two-headed-turtle-oil cream for lubricating his testicle bag. At the boy’s first show he was full of blooms and wearing a plaid skirt. There was no need for underpants that day because he was showing, to a select few, his new O-ring vagina. In the old days turtle-boy vaginas were very leaky systems, but with the recent development of O-ring vaginal restoration, a boy can reach orgasm by simply inserting a pencil. If a boy is especially active, he can sometimes suffer from clogging, but the O-ring is quickly restored by a natural vaginal decongestant secreted by the boy’s proboscis, used in the declogging process, which fetches a premium as a sauce ingredient at all the local restaurants. The Professor sometimes gave a little lecture to children gathered around: “Children, the first thing you have to know is you must not excite the turtle boy prior to slaughter. This may cause pore bleeding and give the carcass a bloody appearance. The minimal kit that I use is a 30-cm head-meat saw, one or two 10-cm Bell scrapers, a clean singletree or gambrel, a hog or hay hook, and a block-and-tackle chain hoist. Stick the boy promptly after stunning it; this helps for good bleeding. Scalding is good fun, too, if you do it right, but you have to prepare for scalding before killing the boy. I recommend the Long Semado scalding box, but a Bario vat is acceptable, or even an old head barrel will serve the purpose.”

[Note: Sources: Susan M Schultz, “Your Mitt of the day (n+7)”, FB post, 17 Sept 012; JBR; Susan M Schultz, “Mitt of the day, continued”, FB post, 17 Sept 012; Maryrose Larkin, FB comment, 17 Sept 012; Salt blurb for Giles Goodland, The Dumb Messengers; Joseph Ceravolo, “CROSS FIRE”, “INFINITE THUNDER”, “DINOSAURS OF PAIN”, at Joseph Ceravolo; Bookbat, “OH MY GOD …”, at The Bookbat, 17 Sept 012; Eugenie Brinkema, “e.g., Dogtooth”, at World Picture 7; Michele Naka Pierce, Continuous Frieze Bordering Red, as quoted in Karla Kelsey, review of same, at The Constant Critic, 14 Sept 012; Éduard Levé, Autoportrait (tr. Lorin Stein), at Ready Steady Blog, 17 Sept 012; phaneronoemikon, “Climata caeli id est plagae vel partes prima pars unde aliquae stellae oriuntur”, at Jellybean Weirdo With Electric Snake Fang, 17 September 2012; David Ohle, “TURTLE BOYS”, at Vice, 17 Sept 012]

Comments

[enlarged pores]

die,” and talk about the needs of dying people, like the need to not be in pain and not be alone. Hospice opened that conversation up. The grief movement, I think, came out of the hospice movement.

[Jeslyn]

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[Jonalyn]

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[Isabella]

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[Melloney]

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[Stafon]

Your post has lftied the level of debate