Collapsible Placentae: A Story of Afterbirth

we climb
and we climb
to the light
to the light

sacer. Sacred, this discipline lining waste bins in kit of latex milled out. Rolled. Rolling. You roll down, oblong, tonic, abrasive shoes shifting in cylindric space pacing matrices like parking lots in the matinee of July's shortened light. We park in these eschelons, tight rope tied leaking serpentine-belt-built time from our corrosive touches. Finger paint. Finer paint faces on the hoods, shadows disemboweled tumbling from the bumper-tuck impacts with the sleeping headlight wind before our fat. There are looser grips on souls, on her shoulders where the purple stains dye black from the hellish train tracks she's bent backwards on. That's comma for you Karma, leaning sideways in the backseat, one cracked rearview eye poled for a better index. Ink sits marrowing, perfused by alveolar inadequacy at an interval from one instance to the hepatic fraction portaling green violence at the air gasps, thin warbled wreck of concavity, before tip follows hip in tracing the first design, mahogany landscapes dwindling near obscurity.
Clark Gablesque they say, painted in oily dimple stippling from badger hair sussing on burlap rasps. I don't blame you for the hat or hatred, the green spring here that plasters walls and wills as it burrows in with its toes. I've no patronage, no mental acuity that I can longer aquiesce for the franchising of Joy, while capitalists buy and trade the monetary interest in passe intelligentsia and flamboyant pink shirts. Chartreuse, no. I want art reviled by passion-thrown blues, a good rhythm... for we are blessed by this Promethian extension from dust and ashes that we burn in our cloistered homes. Don't come in on this grand mosaic treading where I've already gone.
There's a patriot in everyone of us crying over a country yet formed, formless or dreamt. Dream and mass murder, dream and weary pilgrims, wary dogs running on and angels crossing sides and setting borders for possibility to bruise itself on. Baked into stars or ethereal bodies or insert your own poetic images, cast and carved on, our totems, the blood and porcelain, the meaning we move to has forgotten. We passed out on the sand, they said. We passed on. We passed over on our way to creating the unimaginable. We were gone. Sounds like nothing but the plica shifting under our skin, the last pulse of the cave walloping our long-rested lungs deep to our gravest demeanor. Why would we ever stop. Ever strip. This earth wrapped in metallic halos that we long ago gave up on. There's still a pace to follow, that track after track fast-born clickity clickity clickity and cracking sails pulling us in. It don't like being pissed on. The aged face of withered corporate wisdom, entreating our last blitz, but she's already gotten well in behind the wheel and feeling the juice again. The song's on the road waiting for the train to pass and the lines to hiss: it's Joy's turn to drive, and all her musk airing into us feels the pummeling throb of that sweet driving rhythm. I hear her foot tap. Heel hit the floor. The seat tips back...
And we're gone.
Cheers.