Monotone ordinance, alien garbage. Monochromatic elegance in black and white tones like some old stills for a 1930s movie flop house. Raised skirts and long underwear bunched up in winter. The sun is brighter than a thousand stars. Elevated snack bar. Rocket launcher gone haywire. One pitch, no deviation in speaking. John Cage could not, or would not choose to analyze, nor Steve Reich for that matter. Muddled meaning, skipping pebbles in puddles while I tap my foot and shake my leg to uncertain, arrhythmic beats in my own brain and body. Jumping from here to infinity, disconnecting procrastination. "If I knew then what I knew now". Cradles that wobble out of open windows. Bath water lay still and dormant lays hatching to mosquito eggs to ravage and pillage out skins and bodies. Flatline speech. Dial tone. One neverending string of sameness. Scissors. Cut by the Fates. Don't you wanna know what it's like to disconnect? The temptation of everything all the time everywhere. Lay stiff and still as a board. Horizonal spatial reasoning as I shrink like a raisin from the embarrassment of all sorts of memories. To anyone receiving this message you can unsubscribe right now as I dribble on and on, never ending basketball game.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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