“Like This, Actually”

There we are—a fragile box—just what I needed post-analysis to unlock my raised Alex Turner
as aren’t we done with the towns having a say? But isn’t that why we were angry?
I am not ready for this as it goes how I didn’t want it to, striking the buttons
too hot and bothered about effort: we must work hard, whether it’s progress
or literature—read read read
or be patronised otherwise. How many characters can be moved through
as Free Birds roam the plains softly: they don’t sound like sex anymore;
they we are! Our release. I am doomed and too Sgt. Peppered
to go back to the factory of what we all turn away from, then accept,
then know others do. Why do those faces come to us?
If you want a plaque above your door of a miner, install it.
But it has to stop somewhere: we looked out
for something to take away history—that’s it—
and grossly underestimated our ability to repeat exactly the same thing
only in bronze. I am prone to adding a question;
what does that say about associating the photo with the wrong person? Waking up
and wishing it wasn’t them again?
Just create a fiction in your Cornflakes and hang that. Cornflakes! See it yet?
And when that one comes out—all
know-it-all—we know you’re put off. How will we handle
the meeting now? A second question? Seems fitting. Clunky. Seems just about.
I scratched at the funding, by the way, and there were no more landscapes, golden ratios,
plants. Yet here we look: are you growing? Baptised or hydrated?
If I could describe what I just saw I would, but I can’t. It makes me so desperate. None of it is anything. I’d say this one is catching
the affair. Or you could lie back in your material safety
saying, Pump me: I’m not so serious; and see the detached
tears later just as that. Is there really memory? Is it too obvious?
I’m not forgetting about it with my fragile box, a screen to install
on the floor; though I am not feeling it either: this right here
is the flow. Personality. Middle English Middle French—
a mask worn; an avatar. No no no no no! Don’t say that!
But they cannot truly be serious about feeling it? It was an advert—
a not quite finished. We can hear you flicking up, the headache, the flu
coming in four days being put down to this. You’ve got to read it!
or mad, whilst being rehearsed days later: you are suddenly no longer vanilla. I am not thinking about myself enough.
There’s only means—that’s all. Can we bounce between? That crass? Have I the stomach for this?
No! I picked it up again!