EnigmaticReceptacle

Some suit staples his stomach pump to the pavement. Proof that harlots harness their hormones in scarlet fury for the man fused to the freeway. Ro(man)ce adheres his abdomen above the double line, like a statue stifled from switching lanes. PAVE MAN; his name implied and, aware of the squabble cemented to the heads of housewives driving moral mobiles plural, he plugs his person's cavities accordingly. They find him fossilized face forward.   A frown recounts resolve, resolute to rip his roots under the road. Load on his shoulders, they slice his stone belly beneath the naval; trailing gravel and gr

I've seen the skirts scorched, the score board blurry in the face of such a dismal jury. Braced for dirty duty.  Done charging delinquents and the devil's footprints all level on the horizon's bookshelf. 'The Sun, Volume One' sits just above sunken eyes, drunk from the oceans foam fermented dead center. Bulls eye's got me trading junk for journal readings.  Red flags.   Proceedings to seethe in drag queen justice. Uneven. Reasons for reluctance tucked in the open distance.  Hoping to witness an instance of the rotting, universal wisdom before this decision binds my bookends.

Sobriety's quiet. Like the night flinching forwards, inches towards the west.  Spurns sunburns the best   it can. And I'm a fan fare for the frost's departure.  The same that glazes my eyes all ambiguous, early morning under the umbrella stellar. Continuous.

Cause - Our face flies full screen, six little pixels placed apart start the shape our mouth creates.  Sallow hide, raw over organs sexed and swollen.  Sensibility stolen; tokens of spines broken. lengthwise. Our rockets reek havoc, red glare and static, flashing stares between eyes both digitized, unaware.  Insurgents urgent to circumvent circumcisions bent on collision.  The decision inflicts victims of a snowballing syndrome, flaked naked despite visions, attempts to collect our contempt. Effect - Temporarily exempt from conventions mentioned in the collective oppression.  Operatic static supplants the

       I wanted to change the channel.  But, I refrained.  My fingers felt dead and useless.  All ten digits subzero.  Besides, I wasn't in the mood for an argument.  Maybe I even felt a type of comfortable warmth knowing that the hiss of the television sent waves of orgasmic elation through my companion's body.  No matter how hideous the idea seemed, its legitimacy still rang heavy in my ears.  I couldn't help but feel connected to the brat.  It crept up on me, blindsided me almost, this feeling of unique collaboration and possibly, just possibly, brotherhood.          I remember the feeling his teeth imprinted onto me.  All of them chatter

Tomorrow births a hollow hero.  A near zero recruit booted from boot camp ranks, thanks in part to pranks played manic by modern management.   Eyes blink, blank statements trampled, trained to sample sand storms through doors. Boards up words all rational.  International casual-ty looks for ward to rewards in third-world décor.   Newborn nuclear naivety.  Activities in cities squandered while wandering handsome with corporate Captains killed at random, thrilled while chanting their national anthems.  Hope less abandon helps when ever dissent develops a scent too scant to envelope.

I could make out vivus with us, for just a second helping.  Spotless and over whelming-ly tempting. The bard knocks hard, the door to Dante.  Avanti! garde, enters promptly during canto thirty, jumping hurdles with Virgil's heart, healthy.  Nailed stealthily to Florence's floorboards or the girth of Purgatory's earth; round, red ground drowns out decibels infinitesimal.  The sounds of that which lounge in Dis astound our hero's wish to fish for the proper words. Absurd that Homer hollered every verb on the dollar whilst vivus's prenatal fate forgot to stop by for a spot and listen.

Morning mouth, how do you suppose we go about our house held woes or shout at rows of ripe corncob pipe dreams?  Morning mouth where are your clothes, your mopped wigs, high-top sig-nature skid-marked kids' shoes?  Your turn style waits awhile for your mood to solid-tude. Maybe your cleft bottom lip splits down your ribs, hits your heart to pull apart ments scarred. For a start. Aren't you barred from the breeze of breath left behind your kind?  Diseased in time with blue collar implied? Unwind; Your folds are chapped, morning mouth, your face holds shapes that will never amount.

Stand on shoulders folded lawn-chairs falling foul mouthed status quick to drop and brace eyes double-take. Notoriety is a waste. Society tastes like leather shoes per-sueded to lace up bruises. Money makes rags of her in ner tubes. Dinner's plastic salad dressing rooms and mascara flavored flowers melted in velvet belts around the welts her guardian used to prove were dealt by no one knew who else. So now she sews stitched gowns, the same hugging billboards downtown. She'll continue till her bones have found a home beneath the ground alone.

Null are words that shape the curves my nerves ride, sculpting implied situations absurd in verbal vibration, reliant on vocal stimulation. Brittle born fingers, tips to the mouth trigger lips to quiver sick.  Spittle, thick in riddles, spills septic rhetoric, cryptic degenerates on paper permanent. Later, I'm told, frozen are woes chosen, head to toe trucked home.  Tucked alone in bones old before their time have shown sublime.  Meanwhile, these roads of mind spin cold and dry. Thoughtfully thawed, my sighs divide.  I'm beside myself with unkempt wealth, filth innate in this state of health.