Andrew Felsinger
the newish brutalist
[this superabundance, this tyranny]–Samantha Giles
spheres. hearken the shifting music of the world succumbed to a phrase. the
shifting shade shook the sauntered to, out of. as if to say, “…nothing this way
comes: no models, propellers, roller blades.” burnt comings consume the dust.
“evade lost words like landscape.” in the groin of this century goes the middle
finger. we frig to know it. often conjoined in heated clock ticking. there were
only this many fingers. terra firma emulated the emulated child as man as
women worked the diving rods of newer roads. (not unlike the bind. these
cheeky little joints.) killing ache in the no wind. it blew outa there and continued
forthwith into a prism. the new brutalists wear hats, sandals, fundamental
jackets, accurate dungarees, authentic as frosting. new dreams burned like a
slick residue. weeped like sandals, clothes lines. there are only so many –isms.
she said / he said. how can i limit nothing. born as tiny specks. chickens
parsimoniously left their thang-out. they shook their heads. wanted to envision
their experience as having a greater, therefore lesser, degree of reality. things
were like this and not altogether unmanageable. words like dreck made the
scene. it was an occasion to take a life amongst the happy. the juice fairly spilt.
the voice, often so unnatural, spoke without recourse. there are no roots
matching this to that which this had been about. only bread, our daily work.the new brutalists saw to it the piano had been broken by wires. saw the purple
recording device and flashed, their indelicate motions gripping the frenzied public
which bleed like a thorny bush, like irony, like a yellow brush of paint left to
wallow in the helium. in punching the clock i thought of you, briefly. there are
not a thousand brilliant dots but one identical cauliflower to be and not to be, as
is the question. the dynamo held the new brutals like a scalpel and withdrew into
the back room where all the pennies were counted. songs not spirituals. the TV
super suck color picture true pitch or as the house lies divided in its path. the
office workers find their way home as the dust settles on that room. a gigantic
truck lurches its way through the city. cars began to honk then slide off the
entertainment embankment. the home drifted toward that golden ravine. in
divine the diving insects rupture space toward the comeuppance of truth. the
wailing experiment not normally associated with time. on Wednesday the new
brutalists had this new way of becoming loud. it required a helmet and thirty
thousand dollars. i gave it a push, like a wind up toy that had had old batteries.
in the dark there are stories of the timorous xenophobe who sold his teletype to
the rodeo then projected his hate unto the untold masses of telepeople. this
sounds like strobing static. like television but was only a kind of mellifluous
consternation whipped up by some confused church going children who had run
out of monies to watch their favorite imbroglio. she held the stick firmly between
her legs and called for the sentence to be about that which had not transpired
but might have had the furniture not been made of super heated love and kinky
cotton candy jumping jacks. the yellow pressed itself into the rummaging square
only to find that the roll over had indeed incurred the wrath of umpteen numbers
of gorgeous fabricated quietnesses. the little factory chimp cried in the
outlandish air as the men said that they were nowhere to be found, only working
to stave off that thought in which they too would scratch and wiggle. we burned
the decks of pirate ships then dozed off as an indigo moon swam beneath us in
the sorrel sea. the last words were themselves forced to lend their not so famous
selves to the fight to end the income gap and were then finding themselves
newly dreamed in the newly fashioned world which rocked to then fro like a
giant advertising sign glimpsed imaginatively under a noon day moon. we gave
the forest a trumpet and it did play a mushroom. earthen thoughts break the
silence of a dedicated sentence. popular as the motion was it didn’t catch on for
long, the wrong-headed axle bent itself like a pretzel and was given to the show.
people could indeed become the new brutals they had watched on tv or those
they had thought were on tv but who had never been.indelicate evasions map enormous titles the moment fabricated versions of you.
we don’t see but move toward light at the point of assault. the lollipop glad held
the kaleidoscope retroactive factions in the mojo of hipper lullabies that defend
the totting horn of the zoo object. this we call youth. in diametric opposition the
kitchen sits awaiting the blunder of cant to obscure those whom shall come &
abjure the tony lakes like bits of ornamental tooth decay. the floundering of this
radioactive standard, this short-wave felony. ugly retractable plug. the popular
retraceable mouth shatters the matter of meaner meaning. this side of
chandeliers. thought of misanthropic calendars accounting for chance at the birth
of imagined nothing. there is the space that is so before the ultra that it is
brought indoors and generated like a broken hand. i scratched my arm with
worrying that soon the money will be shook. a wisp of smoke flew vertically into
the above air. at some point the new brutalists can be seen using language. this
is not you father’s buick. at some point the point is given back to those whom
had originally lost it in the myriad of circus events called populace. in the
standard way we go to this prescription. but that ain’t the junction of so. this
question we must evade in the totality of this incredible saying for violence we
speak of only this voice mentioning itself as a counter-attack to that which we
can only predict in the lunchroom. the new brutals laughed then gathered
themselves like cartoon characters and sat around sniffing the broken pickle. you
there in the assonance of presence.
