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.