marrowbyJohn Watermann


1Joyous the bouncing of herbicide idiots. A hard scrabble in small hammocks less overloaded. There is the riddle of whether it mattered to have dominated or complied. We did the slipping up, and we still do. We did all false fingering for the brain,  working the yellow gray marrow as metaphor for the lightheaded,  nothing to endure. Will anyone in happiness? Does the good place stay around? Is mankind both for a pink and holding? Fails the washed under or does it fail? Our sudden gills could mean perpetual pleasure for our growing vulgarity. 2Attaching nothing to it comes seemingly from an unknown, and obviously not alone. Garbaged through life, it does not do for us what immediately falls apart. Vigil ponders, even if it suddenly snaps. We despise what is the most sickest. Because once, we have rotted away as one of the violated. We know that life imitates the vile and the underdressed. It is a brash inference for an excruciating archangel, who waits nextto our table and whom we don't hug at the same table.  Conjunct bodies gently decay. 3 It is always banal in that it flips us. Bleeding a poor sequence from our stinking hookup, we adhere to the wrong girder. Dissolving slowly into the bag,  we give poor assistance to each other.  Rough stapling. Exactly the kind of pock marks you would expect after being reamed. A flaxen intaglio on the skinof the eternal victim. Out of it sooner than initially thought, a more considerate might rise, and twice as large as the spastic. Even prone to understanding the naked, as in ourdreams. Auto suggestibility from a paradiselike Tahiti, the disrupter's voice clanging on our heart. Gently excreted in murky water, with the sign of caress, hanging precisely  for long enough, we might feel dry again in the rain.