Ice cream in my stomach,
Becoming languid, cold sour soup
Dropping my most valued 2-way view,
Looking out the tunnel at the gorgeous grey
Midcent gorgeous sublandscape:
Becoming post-- is a process,
Soon, this Midcent sublandscape will be able to
Jellify its boundaries;
Assert itself far beyond the central belt.
Postfalkirkhigh can exist if it wants to,
If it plants that seed of decay--
Decay makes jelly.
Blood and bones make food of the gods
(German for Jelly).
Postwarwickshire happened because of the big melt on the A46
That resolidified its guts into malleable gel.
Becoming post-- is becoming spreadable.
I can filter the M40 and dash it onto the M8,
I can see Swan Street on Ashton Lane,
I can mogrify Murano into the route leading over to Moreton in Marsh.
I can whisper into the filters that differentiate Warwick from Leamington from Kenilworth from Kenilworth Avenue in Shawlands that replaces Kenilworth Road, leading, wealth-laden, from Warwick to Leam to Ken to Cov. And back.
In my dream, I saw him walk simultaneously
Up the Parade and down Great Western Road.
In my dream, all places are just versions of one another.
Moving is just becoming post--
Except, can there be movement without decay?
Without melt, maybe?
A post-- that is altogether more gaseous, or solid?
Rock rather than jelly?
Gas rather than gel?
It's possible to look up and observe these kinds of swell
And cry into them
And scream at them to go away
I wish you'd go away, is what I said,
That way,
You could go
Get crystallised or something-
Anything to evade becoming-----
Anything just to grab an inert object and keep it.