Floats Horse-floats or Horse-flows
by Leslie Scalapino
Fujimori Escapes, Red Mallards
Derogable forest-fan's defoliation in black has leaves in day. In it. Black defoliated is air. Dermoid of black forest-fan's is leaves during the day. In the desert there aren't trees. Grace mumbles waking lying in the trees. Looking down she sees, having followed the poachers at night, the forest mirrored in green, red, and black corpses, dermoid without skeletons or organs. That they'd all been tattooed as forests, is this (or is this done by) the Shining Path or its opposite the death squads, Grupo Colina, which are the government's? She'd been walking through the forest-fan dermoid night waking with colors and scenes of it speckling her hands, face, chest, and clothed thighs. Thighs of people fan. Defoliated they're ruffling is seen only because of colors in the forest. Descendent but as descension of a planet between the two dermoid waves, non-derogable night or day without either. A moon though it is light appears in the dilated color waves. One thigh and a calf drag. They drag the day which itself dermoid has lucid shimmering cells outside of one though are one. Every cell in the one leg is filled with dense pain though reversed it's utterly clear light there, the leaden leg throwing walks in the light cells of the day later colorless. The cattle's calf attached to one spotted as people ascend on each other, a clot backed up in day's blowholes.
The same as Chrysanthemum having no feelings but she is only feelings. That pass over her seemingly, that is, lying as the heaving rolling hills of orange mail wet petals plastering her. A tiny dot on the hill is amidst the wave. The debutante offspring of Chrysanthemum is a copy, that is, unable to perceive anyone outside herself. No one is born. The miners are already there, drown, then more are in mine shafts. Also unperceived babies of many equal creatures are emerging, are there then in the wet. But any being born are dead. That wood is to be born. In the wood an oar borne on the orange flexing mail can't move in it, short-circuits the pink shit. Aiding-Chrysanthemum the older can't do good ever having never started to flips in the air glee at whatever suffering of others she sees which if she has not caused in notoriety tale-bearing carrying to inseminate she draws or brewing so others will be R sick at heart from it flat can't do good having never started to is being lost here citizens already blow-torched by soldiers and being so, blow-torched by soldiers, dot the orange mail of petals pink in places that are waves with people's blood and red mallards.
Yet a few people walk sub-Herculean there seeing elodea outside water. In the rain, appearing to be heard - in order to - the cattle synonymous with dogs are bawling. The cattle wah-wah remaining it is open at the base ruffling. Single doctors targeted, are being shot in the streets taking others with them beside exploded car bombs. Ours think event, at all, limited its being now. What the young doctor careening in flight, the car crashes into a pole does. He waits in the car for the assassin or assassinators but then he decides to get out of the car seeing the fragile shadow bobbing in front of him. That's his skin but it isn't him at all. Then he limps outside across the night city, his skin sky. Unable to reach his patient the night is so clear the city and him mirrored in the floating sewage earlier in the black, if there weren't actual others right there, shadow is outside one separate yet existing only from one animate in black while the source oneself is empty amidst the yellow field and forest that's flowing. While he'd been seen outside driving. There's a lash in my eye. His car was not making a shadow as he'd whirled it around corners hearing its screech car's disembodied screechings of brakes oar the tires in the slurred street. In floating sewage the young doctor thinks thinking crosses out his thought while he's floating in the car wading plays the pools of sewage that's the city, the sewage a harp lapping in the huge moon. In it people are in narrow cracks. They aren't fleeing in these lit bombed strands further above teal garganeys coming in flying so they touch. Is silence a single day, that a random whole? Crossing the rungs that float blossoms on sewage, the dag enters that single day that lightly grinds the cobalt though then when he's there it is the tundra dropping motionless baseless night to be a cheetah with the present the intention? Not windows cheetahs chute-the-chute during chrysanthemum dementia with the trembling mouth at night.
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