Gerald Burns signature    


Androgynous supplies, wingedfoot nudities with basins on have bodies covered with molecularly bound
films corrupting in air, over time, as my potmetal pistol dulls, patinal bloom
as the handle darkened by a fire buffs molasses.
The clock again (inert) clown’s big watch you take a sandwich out of, Dagwood kazoo wartime
tin. The lettuce was grand. Anything like a box
may contain (wrapped bird) a thing in cloth that time somehow intends to put right, our
question if a painted dial does, the red and blue plastic radio watch
its papery strap (like a hospital wristband) to whom does one speak, hands and grill
moulded equally.
Wrapped folk invent the safety pin over and over again. Rocks colored grayer
than her wrapped ones (Biennale label showing on one) are walked over
in newer shoes. Lobsters inform the water and last night Michael won
five hundred on a vinyl costume (flat clown feet in red and the tail between, spatulate)
ruddy face being that which he cooks snapping his claw to show
it snaps, we observers observing. Over all, even the policemen taking photographs a
camaraderie their shirts graybrown petite leather boxes at the belt with snaps
on each breast a star. Fronting you in black we front this.





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