dried time

Dried Time, rehearsed ambivalence, required Armageddon to drop the arrogance routine. Descriptions of low entropy beguiled by failed magic, and if the universe fails it’s only in relevance to sentient subjectivity. Considering a starless sky shall greet the final element and proclaim synchronized repetition vital to what makes screaming in space special. (oxygen slacking off as always). Consumer spoils envision art lacking the creature comforts of dreams, chimeras and sunsets over oblivion. Black hole encapsulates the diameter of dull notes plucked on pigeon throats cooing at the beams of light streaming in through the cracks in the barn, built of plywood. Riot police organize rows of compliance to dictate angry footsteps molesting blacktop as Dried Time marches forward. Flags compete for targets, for mouth swashes, for temptations of neanderthal trajectories. Projections rotate among patches of Dried Time. Wink. Blink. Ballerina winces as she  balances on tippy toes and rotates to demonstrate when darkness forgets its motive to reject invisible waltzes. Rumors circulate to lips and lungs, exchange value and currency at the Post Office, but only on Mondays to avoid the weekend crowd. Smell of fresh cut grass disturbs the homeless man in overalls who stalls on the sidewalk before a troupe of rowdy college freshmen, announcing what should be whispered the instructions for forgetting tomorrow as if it’s today. Television static substitutes for fireflies illuminating cityscapes, reserved like blank tapes waiting for memories. Comatose zombies portend a future composed of philosophical zombies wandering the halls of high schools. Preaching the importance that public education extends to disenfranchised brain clad up-right, up-tight citizens disappearing at dusk, in anticipation for dawn. Dead as door nails or what considers death, as which ape signs hunger, or the ape who learned to paint and decorated their first canvas with the bars of his cage. Boxes full of fabric, incite potential to be designer duds, as in the type of duds placed on mannequins, but pinned back to fit the thin frame, nevertheless more human for Dried Time adorned plastic composers, desirous of compositions foreign to crescendos. Music happened when the lungs forgot to breathe and questioned the throat for advice, out blathered melodies sweet and simple, but complex in explanation. Absolute misfortune planted the American flag on the moon, taunted foreign dictators to drop their dinner forks and eat lettuce with their fingers like Western dignitaries did. Out of anger came respiratory failure. Out of capitalism came credit, thousands of mannequins borrowed filers from imprisoned gangsters and shaved their arms and used the scraps to construct cards. Dried Time broke the Liberty Bell. Dried Time created labyrinths to which it advised the Fibonacci sequence to taunt those passing-by to take a chance on what nature offers best. Around the corner from these monstrosities mannequins built shelter for natural predators, accumulating bullet wounds to wear like designer whispers. Dried Time. Dried Time. Dried time and the end is nigh…

Published by akcola

AK Cola is a pop-culture war veteran.

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