rocks. The link is coming from inside

the biography. Especially given this

inbox is not monitored. Do not

curtain the rail with me, warmly

tenant. There is never going to be

a holiday from rent. The ‘in’ in

‘inbox’ is short for inferno
(Dante). Trigger a mercy ticket

with our friendly chatbot. 24/7

is here. Before you could squeeze

water from afar, many were window.

The house? I don’t know about

the house. Maybe it’s mental health,
maybe it’s the property manager. Or none

other than the pigeon’s office where

the corner of the bathroom used to be.

Not like the sky is a tombstone. Maybe

you have a new lease on outside things

becoming inside things. Maybe a candle

stabbed into a urinal cake can be a happy

birthday. A wish-making moment. A panting

sucker for a happy medium. Not many

would sit here. True, I forget the username

for my blood. Used one neck too many. When

miracles attack: what do we do?
Bourbon. In moderation. Heaps of moderation.

Not too much bourbon. It’s a weak night. Keen,

not keen. To be fair, even the butteriest flowerheads
bask, wobble shitful. It is nearly the year

2055. Why are people still going

online? No more can the dustmite

mung skin, are we engorged by

nostalgia. Welcome to landlord

or cake? (Only one way to find out.)

The game where you, warmly

tenant, can have your landlord

and eat it, too. It’s always, let them eat

cake but never let them eat landlord.

That’s so society. So glacially

erratic. When memories have their

little leadership spills, I like to think

they are criticising what passes for

insight around here. Alas, old mate

will be back. His headlamp won’t

charge itself and I’m not doing it.

That’s my glass half full of habitable

atmosphere instead of bourbon-dread

for you. Opened the window to dry my lips

but nothing happened except I put on

a hoodie. I can see old mate from up here.

Here he comes. Got his laptop. He loves

that thing too much. Maybe it’s mental health,
maybe it’s the overinvestment in the dominant

symbolic regime? I’ve heard pink batts mumble

slurs. Swear. Print emails without first considering

the environment. I threw the window out of myself.

Evening was there and moths pattered the decorative

gravel, round river, tumbled sandstone. Delectable

seed borers met those rocks stunned or worse.