The Very Winters

Your ocean’s broken at the sea side, at oxygen, at the club for dancing yourself into the floor. The downed flower was the way you knew the case was over. There was everything everywhere and you switched hats until you warmed the very winters within. Usually you’ll have the usual. It’s expected. Debt is the prick of reality’s vapor, makes you know that number’s real. And debt bums you down, too. You feel and age, an old whiskey feeling. You work so you don’t have to try so hard, but things—phenomena, the world that is the case (all of it)—get all the way in the way.

Take It All Off

Stash the ’bot in a major drawer. Stand alone in the rain cabin. Find a human in your mumble. This is to be shown, to be exploited in the first place you find. You shave your face free of your body, point at the moon, find a way to crow. Look at the signature across the cold hand, the knee that answers. It’s downright lyrical, this hallowed humane coat. Both of us nattered and palsied. Hey, you know how we used to go up on the roof and get down to our underwear and fancy ourselves important? Yeah, the fish tank has only gotten smaller.

Induction into the Society of Epic Wanderers: Cancelled due to non-attendance. We got high marks in vision, mysticism, high school. We fancied and felt admired. Something came down from a cave. A figurine and a bat had a message: Watch your tender head. Nobody talks like this, seriously. Except this freaking page. We have that, at least.

Textually, there are no seasons. Only Summer and Winter, Sandwich and Fall.