The arrangement of things. The argument against the body. Warring bodies corroding wires of habit, and the cold brain. I imagine the tentacles of the game reaching backward into the fingers, up the nerves to a trapped organ of conquest. We believe that the cybernetic approach to consciousness, whipped up, frothy, would carry us to a plateau overlooking a pleasant mirror, but instead left us blathering in the dressed-up solitude of mannequin planets. Twirling in a blank and unfriendly spaciousness oblivious to our passionate confusion, the players play bent gargantuan over the playing field. Squirming in a hostile element of chewy and tattered rows of sacred bethyl. Now dirty and unseen wrench operators raising the china cabinet with tinkling parts of the sport. The sport. The sport knocking frightened on the glass. Squirming in a hostile element of chewy and tattered rows of sacred bethyl. Big blonde fingers moving the punch buttons and pieces of us, a piece at a time, until there are no more. We, the bloody little bets, cheap, too scared to play for real money. They, cannibalized to death. We realized the tantric bazooka in the folds of our naked brassieres too late as the odds shift lights in the sky, blinking uncertainly. And we are truant from day to day. Marvels and truculence whether eating into our speechless road, it is all over. Music bringing wildest Spring, cantaloupes, generals lined up for lunch in-between moves with crab apple attitudes towards us and each other. Squirming in a hostile element of chewy and tattered rows of sacred bethyl. Now dirty and unseen wrench operators raising the china cabinet with tinkling parts of the sport. The sport. The sport knocking frightened on the glass. Squirming in a hostile element of chewy and tattered rows of sacred bethyl. And our death tattoos breathing, ignorant of strategy, world watching, sulfurous and lewd, acidic, with pants dripping. Tantalus dangling down to his knees, unable to stretch even the feeble edges of our hunger to the witch's teeth with forks of need to survive. The pounding now on the table of the sport. The sport; a question of consequence squirting out laid in blasphemy of having tried to film our belt loops through a mask of nakedness in the wretched museum where only our memories decay and the rest waits to give off light, mesmerized by the hopelessness of logic. The big boom tweaks in the shovel dribbling the planet Earth into the rain. Science wretching at last with its greedy paw and tentacle lost, reinventing God and animals; reinvent science, philosophy, hate. Pantheon where victory and destruction are deified, adored, changed from principle to knuckle of passion, and had sex with as though ruthless without nest. Naked for combat as though someone is there giving and taking the universe as though there is nowhere to cleanse the spirit. But in the clotted purple ring, sloshing in the great blood of dead principles, clothless and returned to mere thought, rolling and acting in the fire and the dirt, ears crazy with applause, bringing the blast-happy existence down crushing the white out of the fever at last out of the delicate fever of life where the too melted smoke of the hands coming together and together and a hard slap and a hard slap and a hard slap with pink entrails and unlaughing cheeks like big browned onions creaming in the red dust. Fists full of winning, suffocating on the black atmosphere balled up around the hollow orgasm like a sad house. At the end of conflict you are its prey, something on its taste bud, rolling, rolling back down to the throat, choking on you, dying of you. You are so small the temple of its stomach will forget you.
Back.