Garrett Flanagan

It feels like a pale blue influx of soluble spherical cubes compressed by the thin tucks folds following the pressure of a few waiting weighted-blanket that is the eyelid: chin snug and cold. Life exists on an island. The residual gravitational force propels the cranium sworn to the floor. Polish and all, the new stain looks wondrous.

Sideways.

Steel silhouettes maintain the frame of the walking cadavers plaguing the planet
(amidst a pinched timeframe.)
Talk about advocacy.

Brick walls grouted and Plastered.
Balk when they laugh at thee.
Quick calls clouded and Castor.
Empty halls crowded with Chatter.
Chalk erasers clap in the breeze.
Unsung lungs tap the trees.
Petroleum pestual symposium.
Slouch seated at the podium.
Grouch greeted the gregarian.
Couch pleated from complacence.
Barely air in the breathe.
Brash bearing juniper beetle bee.

Pollination is important.
Pollution is not.

What’s important is that the sun has many more moons before the hydrogen-helium fusion fuels the hearts of the heartless have been consumed purely skewed tunes from a mismatched mood concurrence is perpendicular to purpose pinpoint the ridiculous curtains draped across the skyline.