Money, Execution, Order

Posted on: Friday, January 4th, 2019

I. Re-desecration of Beauty

I have not know all heart breaks known to mankind, but the one that I know is powerful and active–
That I, with the early sprouts and sprites so beautiful, have already peaked, and that only moss groweth downhill.
I remember the Word of the Lord as it were rewritten, and I have ridden it ill since the gardens of the soul,
In the day by day, unflatten. In the day by day, sink. In the day of the gay, rite-eous tubular sans cure,
And I take with me the remainder of the power I can take. I will rake it all, for sure.

The hair of Samson is cut once more. There is no betrayer but the knife on the floor.
My floor, your floor, is undercut with transits and aspirates with the calm
Of fawning the many-fifty essayists. It shall stay there. It shall stay there dead
In the parking lots and tunnels and bridges and malls that we build
Beside the high art of Earth– attraction to the low-brow tourists.

II. Air Solitaire

Believe the air that is wasted when it tells you that people will waste your time.
When it wastes on you its frail whispers, then the wisdom is heavy as an effigy;
So does the breath of people that linger after their names become disregarded;
So does the calm before the storm, and the calm continuing after but in dreaded development.
The period of negligence is but a sorrow that is short. The lament becomes crowded
During the night. During the night the robbers come, both as cowards and victors.
Only the smell of the Eden Before gets celebrated. The wastes and apple seeds are but ungrateful anecdotes.

(You heard that I mourned the expiration of relationships.
I mourned so many as if they were my limbs.
A body that is lesser before unloading
Is a body that believes for a body that never breathes.
Breathing, breathing, but never reconciling.)

And I don’t recall well. The day before this day is a blur, even without medication to aid
As my main. I have been cursed by the cruel words of an irrelevant doctor who told me my brain was a waste.
“Sayang siya. Matalino pa naman.” (Well, putang ina niya. Putang ina siya.)

I’m going out with every outlet of the temperates I can have. Every wave becomes a verse to me. Now
Every drain and pain becomes embodied by a lie on the line. Every mirror
With petunias give the reflection I ask. Every spawn of the spit, TERRIBILITÀ!
Reverentia to every pledge and mourning of the clock. It unwinds. It unwinds

An ego so easy to bruise– is not an ego that is stable. (And “I do not want
Some janky freshwater bitch fish, Winston. I want a lion-fish.”)

Discarders. Discarders everywhere. Discarders at every turn
Of the damned night. And I sing to the defeatist self in flat.
“O’, how lonesome is the breathing of the gull and the dull.”

Disrobe the birds off their mighty flumage. The feather is a lie attached to those who don’t sing.
Every melody coming from the decapitated limbs is a banger I want to hear.
But I will always sieze, from the weeds of that come after me, CONTROL, even if it’s the last thing I shall do.
(JE BLESSE ET JE RECOMMENCE, Commander. Chante et blesse et danse pendant des années, pour toi!)

III. The Trial Period Has Goddamn Ended!

█████ ███████ ██████ ████████ █████████ ████ ██████ ;
████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████ █████████████ ████████████.
Ito at ako ay ang mga kawalan mo. KAWALAN MO, POTA!
███████ ██████ ███████ ██████████. █████ ██████████ ███████ ██████████ ██████ ████ █████ ███.

(████████████. ██████ ███████ ███ █████████. ███, █████!)

V. Retrial Through Fire

The puppeteers of the rackets are mere gods of nothingness.
And I could hate the heartache enduring, for it is so entrancing to me, I would consciously subscribe.
Have I not been inhaling 50 scriptures when the day is a slope?
So will Sleep and Love finally conquer me when the Fever is lazy? Is the Fever the knowing trope?

You really dislocated your own shoulder with the hushing of your sallies–
Your oneness entering the booth, so high on demand, so queer with expectations,
But I enjoy playing voir dire. I douse myself again with the fire–
Repellents for the purveyors of predestinies…
“But I am my own kind! I AM MY OWN KIND!” O’, kindling…

Lover of biscuits and music,
The bits of me are too good for the urn.
I am in the big games now, but the day lacks the three titles.
They crumble at the hands disassociative– blue, electric, and ecclectic.
But, honestly, how amazing is the day that is barely a filler? How carnally cursive,
The tomahawk to the Ob–So–LETE!, Toccata and Fugue!, trance into thermite!?

And from the ashtray now rise the most perfect lily of the valley
So will Sleep and Love finally conquer me when the Fever is lazy? Is the Fever the knowing trope?


This version of Money, Execution, Order is the short version. The full version will be released on a later date. (Probably during the release of All Life Is Comedy.

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