Metaphor Interprets Memory (In distrust of movements)

Area Boy

Where were you, then

The curtain isn't moving, you're paranoid

Inheritance is only lucky or an opinion about the origin of movement

Beginning with the fascists, (literal fractals) who are less afraid of their sanity than the artists who are too candid to discipline or fear

Orson Wells, sinister music for bells and moog bellow, naive music for bells and moog, blow me unusual kisses over your broken helicopter, broken into, stolen (moments), stripped for parts, for fear, for Orpheu, you stripped things, striped them, remembered them as foreign flags

For what proceeds the common memory culminates in common objects like time or timbre or the fall or autumn, malted or shunted, all the things you were or ought have been, to, fickle urban tribe and tide and nile and the curtain is so still it gives the illusion of movement. I pause for my invisible labor hoping you mistake the stillness for a stunt or some other bold fear like fucking a stranger. Your force is not force of spirit, either too clear and too spare. Intimacy or attentive phoniness. To say, yes! I see the wind you see only not of change which is merer than the revolution I came for--
Observing iron turn, spin, dance, weapon, be called a curtain, and its walls forgotten reflexes of the sun. Cloth, catholics, your factories, your facts, they are dead, they are, dad, they sing black, dada, nihilismus, you sing back like a product of misheard voices thoroughly enacting the red button until the tape closes earth's vagrant eye