Unknown, keyboards + laptop, Abbey Pub, 5.30/11, Chicago

1.
a mechanism with holes poked through-
a handle turned,
a cranked white light white
machine.
strobing spitting
spotting between cycles
we are bathed attacked with white light spat out, surges of neutrality reality
crawling down our throats vibrations-
choke-
and dribble down our chins.
build a house upon the presupposition that it be punctured through. make us a throng that, begging for it, the cement poured down our dampened throats our insides filled, our depths deprived of constitutive meaning, we unfold in beats, pull our disorganized corpses along a surface.

2.
training it- tracking, packing, railing, rolling along- and rock haul concretizing to a- never mind the stop we rubberbands in a box rubbing fucking deafening: have friction rendering deaf to the point of terrifying slowness, concrete almost hardened in our throats.

3.
a grater down my throat nailhammered through my skull cats purring on the landscape through the process they've betrayed me.

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