He ruins himself with it, the map says, and
rain the size of fictional suns reacts with
the interface of her spinning and cleaning the
groceries up from the whirlpool fan-belt
on which they'd spill'd. Meek blood
and dual air-bags, they never could fathom
why so much information was
missing from his application. It was
written in Java, or C++. A document
could take years to crystallize in this heat,
the map said, and then took years to fathom
why the present tense felt so wrong in discussing
her aspirations, all breathlessly snake-bitten,
and no-one on the roof could forsee just how
brilliantly
the projects failed. We wrap it tightly in waxy meats
with movies on our eyes, replaying more than the first
time he disappointed her, he shrivelled up when
the angry big and silver burning corporate building
on his skin released these frigid bats. I wish I could
tell the story. But the security guard won't let him;
it's beautiful to be alive, the map had said, and
you just lay there with plaster skinning your head.

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http://www.lewislacook.com/




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