Excerpt from The Fourth State
by Philip Santos
Make a move: summerlong. Lost in rapture, couldn't imagine ever wanting paper doubles. Smoke rises from a log cabin in my earlier letter: the portrait of a lean, bewhiskered man hung in the lobby. The perfect lie. A yellow bus glides beneath the canopy of leaves, I used to be just like that. Smoke rose from a cabin exercised a deadly fascination-like her last words, her scarf, her cherry-red A SIMPLE TEXT GENERATOR locked into a trap. Mired in endless revisions of my freeze-dried (is that a word?) poetry when belief is no longer an issue. Enough of them, taken over a period of years, would burn their skin and deprive their arms of power . . . Circulating false rumors: you see a wooden nightstand contained the image of a television aerial (is that a word?). Momentum lost. (What's she waiting for?) A television aerial carries the whiff of vacant lots, breek, Lust for One. Enough of them, taken over a period of time, a defunct spelling bee. Couldn't imagine ever wanting . . .
Elaborate: a bombed-out crater, its pit filled with an assortment of more-or-less unidentifiable rubbish, interrupts the flow of ../../images whose sole purpose is to overwhelm the memory of a dumb march to the dining room where black candles lit a partial view of his body framed between the doorjamb and the edge of the door: a black wingtip shoe, a has-been, a length of gray trouser gathered into overlapping folds above the cuff and extending upwards at an angle from the shoe until it disappeared behind the door . . . empty bottles in the garbage pail (is that a word?). Locked into false rumors (Guy Mathessen = Gary Matthews) I take a crumpled black beret from my desk drawer, put it on and begin writing . . .
I entered the pool of rapture and sank like a stone: a defunct spelling bee. Grotesque flowers turned their faces toward me. "A television aerial." Smoke rising from a little cabin. Running, couldn't imagine ever wanting. The pale fingers of a priest caressed the minds of his assassins arguing a deadly fascination (is that a word?) Is that a word? Georges Marchat = Guy Mathessen . . .
The hell of winds.
Empty bottles in the garbage pail. "A lame paperboy, right arm caught in mid-toss." Saw you there (the hell of winds?). The scent of angel dust wafts through the minds of his assassins, arguing false rumors anyone could see through sheets of water/sheets of fire. Their paper doubles. When belief is a trap. She was that kind of girl:
Lurleen began a dumb march to the bedroom. Ate, made a snowman. Winter. Their paper doubles. The lost beach house frozen, not solid, in the regime of ../../images. That strange clearing. Right turn: empty bottles in the garbage pail. Winter. Saved? The lost beach house, the lost regime of bottles. A man in a black raincoat + a brown paper package. Saw you mired in a dumb march to the bedroom (Georges Marchat = George Mendes). Transcendence vs. immanence. She was the kind of girl whose winter is a viral load of memories. Locked into slick self-consistent gestures = cry for help?
Cry for help? Left turn saw you there. You never went this route before: Georges Marchat sitting on a bench eyeing little girls with bad intent awoke to a sweet cool morning, slick self-consistent gesture lusts for a momentum (moment) lost. A troubled voice trailed me through the night I saw you there, the lost beach house. I couldn't imagine wanting empty bottles in the garbage pail. Their paper doubles, sheets of fire on a dumb march to that little cabin where a derelict cowboy used to be. They awoke to a sweetly cool morning, the perfect lie that anyone could see through: a defunct spelling bee.
Frozen, not solid, the real McCoy. Enough of them, swallowed up a period of years, would burn her skin and deprive her arms of power. She was the kind of girl Georges Marchat = Eduardo Caroccio a trap, sheets of water. The kind of lie that perfect town frozen so that anyone could see through. Grotesque flowers turn their faces toward her last words, her momentum lost in slick self-consistent gestures = cries for help? Frozen, not solid, a glass doll's eye dispersed across a range of viewing positions. Frozen, a yellow bus glides beneath my canopy of leaves. (An empty shoe, what's she waiting for?) That strange cherry-clearing running from the kind of girl I used to be. The lost beach house empty, bottles in the garbage pail (is that a word?) so that anyone could see. When belief is no longer an issue. "A crippled paperboy, beneath the image of a doll the caption reads LOCAL TEEN MISSING." Her red scarf, he couldn't imagine even wanting-
the minds of FTRA assassins frozen, not solid, inserted you with no break, a pattern drawn into the sand.
"A toy soldier, bayonet raised in mid-lunge." Smoke rises from a 24-hour laundromat, a giant picture of Robert E. Lee hangs above slick self-consistent gestures to a sweetly cool morning. Couldn't imagine winter, saw a television aerial arguing its deadly (is that a word?) pattern drawn into the sand . . .
Tuesday, ate. Made iced tea. Summer. A pink beachball carried away by the surf. I used to be just like that lost . . . that lost beach house turning from a little cabin. Wednesday we awoke to television, it doesn't matter if you like this since enough of them, taken over a period of years, would burn your skin and deprive your arms of their power. A rusty signpost points the way to freeze-dried poetry samples, her last words inserted with no perceptible break through paper cut-outs (enough of them, taken over a period of years, would burn her skin and deprive her arms of power). She was the kind of girl who stung the minds of her assassins-transcendence vs. immanence, vs. imminence (is that a word?)-
She was the kind of girl who stung the minds of his assassins. 6:00: we all began a dumb march to the dining room. Their genre props that anyone could see through. Word is bond left turn simulation of winter (is that a word?). Their paper doubles "He said he'd give me a ride." Georges Marchat = George Mendes. Her troubled voice trailed me down the road. Smoke rises from a little cabin exercising deadly fascination.
There was no soap coming.
The regime of ../../images and he says in his honey-thick drawl, "I was on the verge of a major breakthrough, diabolical simulation of a process was it always like this?" There was a jolt of pain in her temples, their gesture = cry for help? A paperboy disguised as an aging biker stung the minds of PLO assassins as the bus moved forward. I used to be just like that. There was no memory vs. image along the beach. Geriatrics picked empty beer cans from the garbage pail there was no soap coming. She was the kind of girl running from a troubled voice that trailed me through the beach house. Your cherry frozen, not solid, a momentum lost in freeze-dried poetry "He said he'd like to get together with me." Winter, her last words "there was no soap coming" over the music float snippets of voices "I was just the shadow outline of a prowler." Memory vs. image, they all began a dumb march down the hedge row where belief is no longer an issue.
Their paper doubles saw you there inserted with no (I refer you to my earlier letter) troubled voice blew me down the hall. (Nebraska?) I was having problems generating content, a train schedule, "Georges Marchat sits on a park bench with his fingers wrapped around the edge of wood green-painted slats," I used to be just like that. Breek, the train moved forward. I refer you to my earlier letter I was on the verge of a major breakdown. Their paper doubles, night and distance ossified them, hummed in the hollows of it. TROLLING THE MERCURY My field caught fire: Mannaz, or the Self. I catch the scent of clowns it doesn't matter if you like my "derelict cowboy, fake gun frozen in mid-draw" a pale hairy arm emerged from the trapdoor was your privileged discourse.
Then they all began a dumb march to the dining car caught fire. Boys in their summer suits played tag beneath the elm trees, over the lawn float snippets of voices speaking privileged discourse. "He said he'd like to get together with me." Could anything be tackier? They awoke to a sweetly cool morning . . .
inserted with no perceptible break
Circulating false rumors: Gebo (it means a gift, a privileged discourse). But in their summer suits returning deadly fascination passing through the leaves like rockets silver gray there was no soap witches coming the ritual clearing with women's faces scuttling beneath the fields to die in the hollow of my ear
Story time: along the beach geriatrics languished beneath umbrellas as a red sun sank behind the Jersey Shore. Glass leaves glitter in the cold air awoke to a sweetly cool morning want to die in the hollow of my ear. Now through the night, a derelict cowboy occupied me, hummed in the hollows of your death. A pale hairy arm emerged from the trapdoor holding a steak knife (Othila, or retreat). Couldn't imagine ever wanting-
Spores of bog-mold breek a public pay phone glass leaves glitter in the cold air, float on air, on the verge of a major breakthrough and he says in his honey-thick drawl, "a black bus." There's a cutaway view showing discourse crystallized, suspended in white mist encircling a corridor lined with yearbook photos sad Cambodians linger diabolical simulation of a text. A devil doll soft, defunct, voluptuously curved chill contaminates the air.
Some were passing through her trees like rockets. A train secretes the brittle crust of a television aerial, a television aerial caught fire. Now vampires invade the ritual space leaves glitter in the cold air to die the hollow of my ear. I catch the scent of them and he says in his honey-thick drawl, "a troubled voice trailed me down the corridor secretes a brittle crust some were passing through the trees like rockets."
She wrote a suicide note in disappearing ink. Now vampires invade the ritual space could anything be tackier? Something lurking in the woods. I used to be just like that couldn't imagine ever wanting soap it doesn't matter, if you, frozen, not solid soft, moist, voluptuously curved . . .