TOO AUTOMATIC MUMMERS: A ROMANCE


Love is some dark toil, our vouchers trembling, cinders pop and descending, sending relays, some convoluted narrative of deep glee.

It is March for the rural poor, parched for victuals, the system from within the system is a split rind it lurks and stales, the long since quickly and so be it evinced in the paltry diced lamplight along the summer porch of those through whom we suffer our best intentions.

Love has a taste for tales on a plate of roughage, each an authentic replica, the base hope that dismays me now that there is a heaven_some strange contraption against or since which I am impotent. At shore, hesitation is a kind of refusal. I watch you watch the moon, what for?

There’re no words but perhaps pure motivelessness. Once you’ve got them after you, inalterably only they stand before you. There are chores, into and out of four rooms, knocks at the door, I was an activist in the eighties. And so toiling, nothing chaotic is arbitrary, as the words watch the time watch the moon suffer, what for?

What is not means rephrase my memory and requires something like a balloon toss. The postulates, the premises, the blankets and the pastries, berries in a bevy festoon the vault of uncertain terms in absolute pastoral relativity. So it’s this not to ask for levelling events between us.

My coffee can beat up your rapture, your thrice pointed stalwart grapple, your cluster of syllogisms and other acts of attrition collapse every petty attraction into immediate adieus. Cassettes melted to the dashboard, the lake seemed to pucker then complain, and in a heroic temper we drove up on the lawn_you recall none of this, of course. So scroll to insert. So don’t ask for love has a taste for tales. But with my helmet over my eyes, I acquiesce.

The gangly chuckle of full ripe elms in the rain, or some convoluted narrative of deep glee, the scenery oblique turning to one another. “I will reimburse you,” say anything to the poor, ought to be, about the happiness. The figures come out one way and they return another. Sage and lascivious, you would prefer drinks and fights.

Love is impossible or inevitable, then. Who knew to endure it?