A Subject without a Code

A Subject without a Code

gazoom:

a new section opens up

undertones of black subterranea.

reconstructed man exits the door, passes into green air.

submit the wrong question he says and the averages will be down

(which is a bad forecast and is raining), but bones that rot beneath canvas signify

the financial romance of death, she adds). his mind is at gunpoint smokes. if not Tuesday, not

when where. her bleak tongue a voice he hears struggling in the branches as roots turn, pulling soiled

threads or a blood-drop swelling and sweating in the corner of a yawn. put down the receiver and RUN,

she wailed, i'll be waiting at the final lake.