Matt Hill

SUMS OF AUTONOMY

The Zeta function was something rock mysticism
  couldn't deliver, something the cool breeze of 
piano notes couldn't assuage. Everywhere, beasts
  of prolific loin in the margins of malign. A paradise

hypothesis demonized by visible things. Deities now
  silenced by the killer zygotes. Even though, amidst 
the vapid deluge, an arid humor emerges intact. Sus-
  tained not by the technotopian green noise of video

impedimentia. Fragments of fossiled fire and vector
  boson prophylaxis. Postmodernism could be just 
another promotional elixir, no? Full of dull malign-
  ancies, stealthy as vulture shadows. The bimillenium

is soon to be our red dragon. Uptown statusfiers,
  relax your traits. Lest we become entangled in an 
interjacent plethora of rogue sets. And "lyrically
  dense" lingos of tattered salvations. Where are the

godfathers of the "stoic fur," those who must pursue
  scripts of insinuated fire? Zero, the impeccable sum 
of autonomy. A dream of no regime. Resounding like
  the return of emptiness, he was now confronted with

caseloads of leftover innuendo. Eclectic snapshots minus
  the recall. Recapped nihilists in megalomediocrities 
insisting upon a feckless tautology of slag. Boodle lust
  has morphed into limp lucre. Why the taxing cant of

smug deniers, achieving ever higher standards of mess?
  Blaming the glands will only indenture you to further 
hormonal dictates. Why her parents named her Clod debt
  is still unknown. Just as he loves not to talk because of

the ablatives of dwarfed data, his chronic punctuality might
  also be measured in nanoseconds. In a siege of gas, every 
emission becomes an epiphany. Torporous with the day staggers,
  well earned wounds full of mortar. Bone-out a critter and

what have you got? Getting past the IT of masticated ideologies
  may be better than buzzards on the roadkill. Perhaps that's 
why action is effective on the congestive backfill of quotidian
  malaise. Of that which is rife with the cosmetic mere, deranged

euphemisms are still on placebo. This has become the house
  that Angst built. O knot of psyche, your anterior oracle, the 
inclination of thy tale, is now in my eyes. Showboat those daisy
  dukes until the insolent curvature loosens my lips. Do me up

some bifricative spume music. These nouveau pagans are really
  wowing the critics with a durable goods medley of awarded 
wreakage. More bitchin than hot spit on the jingled bells of
  July. This pilgrimage of text research is indicating a mulch of

paradigms - to wit, the inexorable bondage of reader & writer in
  a fundamental grammar of bloodstream & blossom. My incom- 
prehensions constitute a proof set of roughed-out translations.
  Blent into the liquidic ethereal, a "daydrop" kiss of gloried

morning, the sky poised in gelid blue. Intuition is a spring temple
  of nimbus piled high (as a hymn is sung to the gloaming). 
Blue glacier detritus mislaid upon the gold coast: the resulting
  fracta lode iterations. The protein narcosis of history is no

bargain of hallucinatory narrations. In the citadel of dung
  regalia, cookie culture half measures drowning me in vapidity. 
Roll yer own beatitudes.