They Will Sew the Blue Sail

The Apple’s Floor | Daniel Poppick

The age is not torturing he who am atomized by your embrace.

People die in things we don’t even think of today, like castles.

A warning peace cruises softly over the public.

This truthful circuit. You’re in my house how.

Directions exit directions, God following their slack.

Suffering is exhaling when one can’t exit my music.

Hearing to music at maximum volume can cause a person to be death.

Throw another rose on the singer. Does he absorb?

The audience laughing in an orb.

December breaks onto the coast.

I’m so looking forward to becoming an environment in which some creature occurs.

But I’m diagonal, day’s mezzanines collapse.

Until the public passes into the twelve-hour tunnel burrowed between these thumbs who crush crime.

I ride three modes to work: one underground, another with sunrise, the last a passing cage.

Opera blasting from a passenger’s buds.

When I arrived my student relayed the following.

“A Shakespearean actor breaks down in the face of a greenscreen.

His dialogue outsourced to plastic elves.”

Who speaks into flat forest?

The echo has nowhere to go and go.

The second call its first dimension.

Above all I’ve endeavored to change my birth’s location.

My parents the thing that’s happened all week. Their warming rays a pile of sleep.

He didn’t have adults in his voice, though he was weeping with it.

I was trying to persuade this look of glass with a score in sand.

His parents in the vicinity waiting for a legal team on the beach.

They are there to tell what has happened actually.

By actual I mean verifiable, evidence printed in the world.

The train’s window going live in daylight.

Its blade and geometric spray.

I wanted a surface to reflect its emissions.

And for all mouths who came to bathe there crippled with braces, foul fuel erased inside.

Each meal a heavy metal pool.

For a couple of years I up and died.

There’s a reason you’re reading this in black.

My ass is splashed with Mozart.

A lit candle saws his head off in the forest.

It is part of his practice. And things feel slightly alive.

Above a station in the metro someone executed two officers.

The New Year arrived and arrived.

My friends are here.

The papers said when the slayer exited his train we all spilled out, faces on an infinite bough.

The tear is ripped as a golden goblet from its body’s bag.

Things feel a little alive.