If there is to be a treaty under the auspices of certain moments say, in history for example, that dictates behavior regarding the banditure of weaponry by way of the nomenclature of evidence, virtual purpose will have to be extended through time.
(*In anticipation of reversals, elements of nemesis, or the understanding of inner workings, it will be necessary to create epistemology regarding the exposition of bandits and their subsequent linear devolvement into a substructure of infinity.)
If, in the overhead, there appears, for example, a disproportionate amount of sky in the foliage, it will be construed as an infraction of imagery at the expense of meaning as it refers to linguistic connotation, and therefore will be listed under the auspices of the banditure of imagery.
(*In addition and in concordance with the above stated nomenclature of evidence, these infractions of imagery will necessarily also be referred to the moments mentioned below.)
If there are moments, as in some scenarios, certain of themselves rather than of those always arguing for their questionnaires, they shall be held as mortally selfish, and therefore fall under the jurisdiction of an appellate court ruling outside of a timely infrastructure.
(*However, if a moment is found to be mortally selfless, the aforementioned substructure of infinity will be applied without linear devolvement.)
If an evidence of banditure is found to be explicit in an aforesaid moment and is directly related to an affront upon linguistic signification by way of mortal imagery, said banditure will be found to embody a moment illegally and will be linearly devolved into a substructure of infinity.
(*Refer to implied epistemology and examples already cited.)
Tremors shook the dream. The dream was a platform or shadow of a platform; a gallows for the patron. Allow me to reconstruct: I felt a substitute shaking mathematics in my ankles. Geology sat in the garage, conspired to interrogate the vagabond captive in my ankles. In my sleep lay the sagging movement of stones forcing the dream into steerage. To circumvent the shaking, a brigand sauntered to the gallows, a wonder in my mind, to reconcile how stone could tell of its horizon thrown from platform to gas station in a trajectory of mathematics to land in the painting of a pirate’s platform. (gallows now a giraffe on the tundra): My dream has been degraded by its shaking to a clown in the math of one.
When Don Small encountered God he was dead, a shadow on the night’s bardo, somehow still, a molecular mess of sand or granular by-product of cement, smeared by police. Re-living himself an intensely sublime curve of torsion stamped in a swing at someone’s head, he found his hands packing all moments at once toward his race back to a box. Dead and seeing God, it happened all finally. His truth, a box of moments leaning hard into light; a whore in light’s shadow. In his ass, everything he’d eaten, consumed by the space of his hands. His body lost liquid, broke into moments of sand where every lie lived in every mouth of each grain stamped in a record of his fingers remarking final truth to the police. Alive he could handle it, but dead and filled with police in the moment of his seeing, he destructed God in a box. Don Small happened finally, all moments at once, stamped onto a tarmac of parking lot, drunk in a Ludlow shadow, a whore of a mess with a cock and a head made of sand. Don came close to a moment alone within the horizon of his hands. A human somewhere becomes a new murder inside of its hands: This is a truth required by God’s police: It is Small’s moment reiterated in the becoming of sand. This is the whore of a lifetime lived living in a box: Life built by the requirement of fiction, or light’s shadow, flattened in the onslaught of an aftermath, violently stamped. In the violent arrest of time lived, Don Small stamped inked finger images onto the car door in his hands, his image moving away, blocked into diagrams of shadow occupying an illusion of procedure required by the police. Blocked by an intrusion of box, there seemed nothing to imagine, no end to the sand. And this stayed the final moment where Small was, stuck in his sand body locked in an arc of viciousness and stamped for liquid observation under a lens in a box, body open to light, internal organs present in both hands, thoughts regarding space falling within a jurisdiction of police, gods of inner workings understood as light’s sacrifice to shadow. In God’s box Don destroyed the space of his hands, (in truth, his destruction was stamped this time by police) and his small moments shift as sand under God’s shadow.
to market to market to buy a fat flea train it to tricks, to carry camels or horses in baskets, to dance in a bucket of worms...buy it and train it to play dead, to starve on words, to fart on command, to prance with a gun onto a train of fleas... train it to swim in a tiny pool of gasoline, train it to drink coffee, train it to Europe or the Congo or the Middle Weast. Teach it to love dogs. Blindfold it and send it to plot a farm in Kansas. Teach it to fuck ants. Teach it to feel something like the world in a universe where bullets itch like fles love an itch in the ass. Teach it to take off its pants for a sale in France to market a great buy in fashionable waste. Feed it a cob from a fashion-ist plate... teach it a rhyme preach it a beat march it as CORPS to the God-Fund bank on Mars.
Heart the wire wings blind against day shelters in the small naught predictable plans to prey, light grows its worming way spectacle, Heart shrouds the function, flat ghosted taught gallant bursts in the decollator Heart grows to invention pressed against the snare, regains the pentecostal tolerated depths pool, Heart foglights through wounds curve, fissures of pale move, Heart the peace blankets to death the tangled graces, lays in its mouth dreaming, the solvent night: tomorrow faces mean anything to Heart's corpses suspended fore and aft by traction Heart looms the sway, rings the darkness crowds, forces, watch bells flood harsh blood and blooming Heart fills the daft air with falling falling Heart climbs into soaking then blue nothing bounds over the life museum
youth eternal in a fragment of decay only's her body left big as her empty kiss me cosmos I am late this time is flat carelessly incomplete I contain a surplus process passion leap to be, exactly, seamless the impossible immediate wastes itself a trivial advance desire drives duration time, your slow wish repression which artifice divine ebb neighborhood replaced by ego, eternal is not whole.
on the day I lived in batman's airbrush came a cloud of blue mist to cover the whole region in backwash animation a mortality bruise a robust man flew thoughtlessly, airily caped indifference a flat beauty or maybe beautiful in a circle of his condition a hero nonetheless over dubbed, resistant, blind by reason's kingdom moving less freely in the world than ever
"I went to Atlantic City, town of cock suckers and empty palaces dreamily I sat at a gamecock's table and watched liquid blacks disappear into pie monopoly ruled by ladies on the way to bring up dinner, cocktails, the occasional child some dark haired sinatra song finally stopped listening dwarfs, or just midgets, in black tie attire"
across from Joseph Moore two boys lit firecrackers forced into the baby bird next they did kittens and walked two blocks to Sonsini's store where they bought penny candy with arcade allowances from their dad's pants pocket.
off to a temple with stupid parents curls and brapping high hats the girls laughed at the pussy boys but the only viable girls were boys at temple boys grow up shave, drink Mad Dog, masturbate into each other, mouth and vomit prayer
heart I am cancerred in god I live in a million forearms, the world's nature, do not make more of birth than the revolting mess it is grown in lamentable biology the stench of a billion death specimens itself in the multitude of praise.
Heart the wire wings blind against day shelters in the small while predictable plans to prey. light grows its worming way. spectacle, Heart shrouds the function, flat ghosted, unknown but for a gallant burst in the decollator, Heart grows to invention, pressed against the snare regains the pentecostal tolerated nothing now moved, Heart fog-lights through the depths pool a fissure of pale murder Heart the peace blankets to death the tangled graces, lays in its mouth dreaming the solvent night: tomorrow's faces mean anything to Heart's corpses suspended fore and aft by traction Heart looms in the sway, rings the darkness crowds, forces, watch bells flood harsh and blooming, Heart fills the daft air with red falling falling Heart climbs into open soaking then blue nothing boundaries in the life museum ALICE B. TALKLESS