La scierie à l’aube

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La scierie à l’aube

One day in May,
we walked up to the sawmill at dawn.
We tried not to think about the certainty
of greedy shits ruining our hapless planet.
We succeeded and felt much better for it.

A-propos de ça, here’s some advice.

Start with this thought:

The ship’s glass renders with certainty
that the beach variations in sync with
bankrupt-live, obtrusive,
and unconcerned students of The Taras
and other Buddhist female deities
will sometimes extol continence
and draw down fire from the bosses.

Why?

Because they’re a threat to the study
of the tremendous piece-work happenings,
the around-hangings at junko bars,
and the tricks copped by climate oppressors
at the In-vyrol-mental Protection Racket
when the boat, she comes in
full of Paper Truffles,
Argentine wine,
or vine tomatoes from Etna, morsels
delicious more
than the lotus sown
inside his furry feet,

going:

Hey now,

while The Meters sing in harness the more ex-static
when at least one thousand five hundred young-uns

vanished,

trumped in hearts
forgotten,

while fear and the will to power turn FREEPRESS into FREELOAD summering at the family home ON THE COAST wherein to AGITATE in behalf of Maltese perimeters of relief for the LLCs. My right?

So, yes, oh yes, it has all gone South with the Col. North of truth and consequences bleak for the black-and-browns and Bodhisattvas of Eastern science-yoga with castrated downers on the quay who drown him daily, so we know him very well.

So, no, I don’t insist that the ladies loved him despite the circumstances of his something-wrong mind that he admitted was feeling maimed by the death of a Russian billionaire. No, but.

So, yeah, last month, did we? Did we throw some flowers over the schooner’s bow and split the odds on brain injuries after falling from the world, in spite of the fact that we lacked the ability to precisely date when they appeared, the holy black-brown folk dancers sinuous, like from letters glowing in the yacht’s metallic-spheric guidance globe, on and on and on?

Conclusion

Admit it. Our planet cares naught for us’ns. Yet we still get loaded in a pulse of NewYork-danced hits, while, stuck in his head, the boss’s preferences make superyacht cycles around the Med directly related to planes and helio-coppers incredibly difficult for Uncle Rosanna way up New York way who says she would not discourage others to be derived in part from certain goddesses of Glendale.

She carries his urn with her,
ashes bitter as bile
in an bag as big
as a $2 hardbound
PERFUMED illegal denunciatory falsehood.

So, go on. SHAYKH or not the GARDEN OWNERS.

But remember that Michael’s body was found under the yacht stuffed (the body, not the yacht) with our updated analysis, a tome demon-straining that the climate swings took place while THE ecological changes were on tap during happy hour at sea, not the other way around. Don’t forget that.

And the ride—short and downstairs, for the Delicate Lingual Delerium required with footnotes to artificially inseminate many cows in Modern Sex Practices—this glide downstairs led us to understand what would be required to research lost time, to look for Will’s last inverse-terments which account for 215 million years of debt, OR for the art death, both good and well, to care about a verdict of accidental adventure cruelty and insipid criminal activity.

We trust nobody. But who was NOT involved in luring cool-groovy handsome young Ethica Coda Virgins into LAUGHING at the buxom figures seen in the chore-bed who was possibly defacing a partially-visible inscription as evidence of the DRAMA disease of Authority Criminosis living a life of “having-had-worked” his way to confusion galore upon the superyachts out of Miami and Quintana Roo, and New York, I’m talking about HOT YOTS so warped-out and orbiting Earth as it undergoes hotter summers colder than Gaza, Pearl Harbor, and the Great Wall of brown andstone being shown in slide shows all across the EgoSphere, much hotter.

You gotta wonder why. Why this process—long debated—happens too tardily for the total image of the Overself or of jumpsuited New Jersey Researchers who noticed that a castrated MALE SWINGER, he who bears the political, cultural, and/or artistic wants-warts, has the awe-dacity to be forthcoming for private family FREAKSHOWS and other unholy saturnalia.

Putting all that behind us,
digging it into the ground,
we walked home
and felt much better.

Photograph by D Young.
Text by R Young.

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