The Book of Pages

This is why we can't have any OK things

I didn't ask for my hat to be converted into a flat rag bath. I do not recall nor do I recoil on how or why you boiled all the soil for the radius of several blocks. I go down I slow down. I sit and chew my chalk. Let the political world go by, as long as it's not me that's poked in the eye. Keep rushing, gotta hurry, got a date with a grave in a couple decades. Rushing about and prepping things. Getting all tan for hells eternal flames. Shining shoes and a bright top hat. I can dance a couple ways and I am ready for all that. I got a 3-d printer that can print any badge. Don't fuck with me, I'lll pull false authority. Truth holds no sway on me nowadays. No plight blights afterbites or flaming kites today. No truth holds sway. I will stay on replay today. That's OK, let's make it forever. Catch cupcakes from the screaming white waters. Lay in the hay with the country folk's daughters. Form a caravan that stretches across the land. Eating snacks I am barely aware of as I show the TV ways into my mind. Consume, all the way to doom. Why else can't we have nice things? The cogs are clotted green with mildew and spilled brews. The walls give away in sad flaps. Chalk protection circles around me as a jerk it, glow in the dark merkin. You know the clotted dawn. The ungolden triad, the pockmarked nipples. The soylent in chief. The ever-lasting flash. Lost my faith in cheeses. Many years poll vaulting all the way home. The wells beyond the known fields. The rats that cross the ground in mass. The strange bird calls late at night. Bubbles from unknown scripts. A dozen projectile bug part flicks. A shed skakeskin shirt a murky meadow I had to desert years ago.

What gives

Many drinks into the night, Jack Clarke started playing some tunes. The Crispy bacon 23 and a half started the playlist with rollicking walking bass lines and flange soaked didgeridoos. Bells and atonal whistles, and bellowing from a far off confrontation caught on field recorder. Next up, the Ripping Rippingtons. Slide sitar and Jim Whiskey's famous edible drumset. A long bluesy dirge that takes forty-five minutes to hear. Jack was drunk as hell by the time it was over. Next the punk power of 80's lesbian rock band, the Cunning linguists. A valkrie war cry of five fat blonds packing power onto power and rocking Jack's socks off. He never found his right sock again after that event. Jack went for a piss, looked in the mirror a bit. Got a bag of chips and a soda from the kitchen. He missed a short song while away. He returned to hear the last forty seconds of the Tremolo Counts rendition of Strange Fruit. He loved what he heard but he passed out after opening the bag of chips and spilling the soda on the floor. A pivital song lost, forgotten, never heard again. Back to sleep, away from the herd again. Taking in some dream tourism. A rapid eye movement vacation. They do it all across the nations.

When the night writhes

Statues of clay

For thousands of years, these statues rested under the lake til the great drought brought them out. Pre-human statues kilned in forest fires. Gilled amphibian humanoid beings.Of course, shortly after being discovered the Smithsonian Institute came from nowhere, like Men in black to gather up these ancient statues and take them somewhere to be smashed into dust.

Sticker farm

The childhood farm grew green tall and lush. Lizards and turtles and frogs filled the pond. But then the wealthy nearby county damned to river to keep it to themselves. The land grew dryer. Many lifeforms died or moved on. No more lizards, goodbye frogs. But thorns, stickers cockleburs, basically about anything that can stab you but is not a cactus grew all over the farm. These stickers had extractable chemicals so a truck's flatbed full can net a farmer a couple hundred bucks. A hell of a price to pay for toiling to gather tens of thousands of these nasty items. Sticker farm, barely making enough to feed the fams and pay the taxes. Burning stickers for warmth in the cold of winter. I still remember dozens of broken off sticker tips burning with mild toxic throbs under my skin. Cold, cold sticker farm, eating grasshopper meats.

Other uses for Silos

That certain pasture

Certain spots are bends on the map. Places where the actual amount of space there is bendible. This pasture can go on for miles when things line up right.

Cold walk for an empty box

Strangers are in the field

Malted Manifestos

Tip the scales til the jewels run out splash on the ground like cherry wine. And the tubes come unglued. The palace falls all rat chewed. We view this and approve. It changes the hue of our moods. Malted Manifestos for all. With vanilla powder, I shall scrawl. Mystical pudding beer for everybody here. I shall step into the light as soon as the sun goes down. Bleak giggles, smeared Mask care ah. Tubes plug into the walls and are not sanitary. Medium sized baby bunting. The rebellion of the Bile Gods. Nasal chieftains, Ash storm blocks the sun. Long walks while blacked out on a drunk. The windchime office, the gathering of empty water bottles. Tongues lap holes to escape the walls. The night leaves a fine layer of lipstick kisses overall material objects. Scratch and sniff manifestos. Exoskelital roses. Inter-painitory die ag noses. The waffle lands. The saddest dose. The unknown pillars of the chokey ghost. A tugboat full of smoked smut. A tunnel of clotted party debris. Gathering black, blue, and red berries from the trees.