Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Things we cannot see appear, singing songs we cannot hear



Value haunts our lives, they're chanting into the arms of riot police. These are at least embraces.

The trite machine gun wears its stupor into the middle of whispers like a testing/testing microphone and tells us so, sudden announcer, cotton curtains in the singer's throat and the blank stare in stereo of a voice inhabited by justice is so appropriate it disappears