Look for Eleven Issue 7.5 on the streets early next week.
Closed-circuit camera got me circling round where Newton strung me up, I sunk in drunken confound, guiding knife-sliced orange like paranormal profound: pulpific moments will surely astound those readers and seekers of all things wound around the sound. Did you come here for grounding in some wholly unbound expounding of all things drowned in the founding of some composer’s resounding? We got ourselves surrounded in the future tense. Hung out to dry on some apocalypse fence, picket painted, pullin’ down stars, now weeping and creeping at the local dive bars for our defense of intoxication, thickly tainted town czars and coffee-break wars incense our cocked nation till we’re spillin’ out with oil just to feel the decimation, till we’re fillin’ beds with quarters just to reel in hot vibration. Call the reporters on this steel violation!
Raze the bourbon bound blood hounds here to fire you up, till the patron saint open taint comes in your cup. Where are we going, where are we going, we who here dwell, in the shadows of the scraping sky that quite nearly fell like the swollen-breast birds and those fish washed ashore, we have come here to die as we’ve all done before. As the vector repeats the nectar is sweet-calling dimension-falling, stalked-stalling till our time has come, hung over, strummin’ in the analogue sun.
And now, my bitches, here’s the turn. Who’ll do the dishes? Watered logs can’t burn! Oughtta find bright lights on a Loop-lust night, oughtta heal squeaky brakes, keep loose chains tight. Might confide in our local pride beer and wine here to cheer and bind fear of coming back to strum the strings, designing divine confessional kings. Peaked pews fill around me. I will sing and We will Be. Or I will hush and churn, sinking in to learn and listen, aging thin concern to glisten, holding winds high, rhythm liners as flight: deeper miners, heed sight. Metronome drinkin’ clicks of your fright and frost, from melodies lost as we come around to retire our gate on the crossed-wire confound we call fate.
Now we’re wretchin’ and stretchin’ our longing like it’s hushed in the ground, knotted, belonging to rotted roots, now blooming the fruits of fine grime’s plain song, yearning, strung and strained, as grey grain’s ferment lay slain like hay hung, retching for unsung rain. We campaign from the net now, spewing champagne. All blue-toothed to touch, can’t love booze too much. Ring it up cause the money and the time’s all the same: our mimosas in the morning will string out our fame. Our stocks locked in ticking tricks is all we could claim when the final chord was cut to give our listener a name.
