HAPLESS TRANSCRIPT LOST

Door rolled up into the mirror of the window's glass reflecting on the mountains towering over the balding scalp sloping away as it is approached curving away along the road the road curving away and around the mountains cold with disappearing sun and night overflowing its bucket mop of a mind twisted twisting out the filth of filthy water must be rain coming no it isn't not yet never not yet not soon not even soon.


It was what she said when she said it when she was what she said it was what it was when it was then when she was then that it probably overlooked her as it so happens hapless and idiotic overlooking her taking her for granted granting her almost very little almost night night overflowing its bucket mop of a mind twisted twisting out the filth of filthy water must be rain coming not it isn't not yet never not yet not soon not even soon.


Time and a chance not a chance only chance it is it was what she said when she said it when she was what she said it was what it was when it was then when she was then that it probably overlooked her as it so happens hapless and idiotic overlooking her taking her for granted granting her almost very little almost night another night that drags on into morning shoved away from legs scratched at by resentful mouthings filled more with the taste of cigars than the bitterness of emptied something something tightening knuckles that can't grind the teeth some more and it's still not there not still not still not there or there probably overlooked her for the last time and the last time was longer into the past than the next page retreating into the next behind the next behind the next in back of the back.


They took the speakers and left naked wires clinging to the rug stained with the usual spillage and waste of incompletion always another incompletion for her as her looking back looking at her with chins cleft by double messages doubling into later hours darker hours doubling and towing her along the bed her side of the bed her side of the tank filled with the black ink from the mop slapping the filthy water in the mountain's bucket her side of the mountain where blades slash at the impervious sky sealed shut with the red eyes of light conveying people late for another time they will wish they hadn't been born for but it's too late for that pregnant with the too late as they crash down miles of the night into the oncoming light of the next day and the one behind and the one behind that on the back of the back of them all.


She: When?
He: Are you?
She: Going to respond?
He: To the outside?
She: Stop the inside?
He: 
She:


She looked askance at the eyes
that looked askance at she 
looking askance across the
plain plains not a look 
for looking back at
back at
at


They took the speakers and left naked wires clinging to the rug stained with the usual spillage and waste of incompletion always another incompletion for her as her looking back looking at her with chins cleft by double messages tonguing their way through the walls of the speakers they took and the naked wires clinging to the rug stained with the usual spillage and waste of incompletion always another incompletion for her wire trigger hairs between legs scratched at by resentful mouthings filled more with the taste of cigars than the bitterness of emptied something something tightening knuckles that can't grind the teeth some more and it's still not there not still not still not there or there probably overlooked her for the last time and the last time was longer into the past than the next page retreating into the next behind the next behind the next in back of the back back to another incompletion for her wire trigger hairs between legs scratched at by resentful mouthings filled more with the taste of cigars smoked behind smoke rising from another incompletion clinging to her wire trigger hairs between legs scratched at by resentful mouthings lips moving in time with meaningless repetition in time for a chance not a chance only chance at the stroke of another stroke zippers opening around crumpled and trampled roots of triggers hair triggers what a stroke in time the last time lasting as long as it withholds assaulting the remembrance the last time that has dried into the desert that surrounds the road curving away and around the mountain towering over the balding scalp and its sweat repulsing fingers knuckles tightening this time the last time for a chance not a chance only chance at the stroke of another stroke zippers opening around crumpled and trampled roots of triggers hair triggers what a stroke in time the last time opening upon sundered holes looking down at luck not worth a stroke.




- Max Stoltenberg