Ciphers of Regression; Canto XXXI: Where Is Your Rupture? And All The Boomer Penthouse Forum Working Order

Ciphers of Regression; Canto XXXI: Where Is Your Rupture? And All The Boomer Penthouse Forum Working Order

I awake upon hearseing grip tape dusted roadside,

Like spit on sand drawn dirty illustrations stuck into mail, 

Was the first stag film emerging out of all muttonchops colonial headland then,

And of all the things I do now know, but all of which I am not at the moment thinking,

Was that after all these years,  

Boomers still have zero real conception, a Charles Manson like non-comprehension of skateboarding whatsoever,

Despite street turning forty, 

And baby boomers valorizing M.A.S.H. again,

Oblivious, like yipping cartoon sunglass dogs, lint bidden sweater arms for ears, animated flagging in the Datsun wind with windows all the way winding on down. 

And no Baby Boomer ever has seen What Only Me and The Babysitter Know follow up latchkey flesh house promo slam section.

Dear Penthouse Forum,

I am an architect that engineers plank on air to sit,

And I pen poetic non-sequiturs that don't land brand Primitive,

And I conceptualized April as exactly a brand that Gen-Z comments section wants again,

And I edit edits for all the sick fuck asperger who insist on collecting Gator reissues still now,

And I only love the rights, when they are so shored upon,

And as the world comes of late style red Grange age,

To black space upon all sake's own boil rock raw dogging,

Humbled gang members who quit the shrimping around the tavern, find solace of the notion of prejudged fate and an un-manipulable un-mutable god.

Mean street buck beaten, bowlegged browed K-swiss foot soldiers who quit skating once every year, accepting things are going to work out the way they were meant to be anyways.

And when you go to the nipple staircase ridge behind dolphinheart library in Gloucester, and you're too bite into the apple of knowledge shook to even but try, 

Confronted by the border between your sober stasis and a drunk richer you,

Then the baby sitter will never be impressed the next time she comes tooling over.

As place reduced to being considered just merely an area within an environment which has been simply altered in such way to make the general environment more conspicuous and only that,

Someday I will send you a page from a novel once everyday in the mail, not stopping until the title concludes itself and the novel cycles and disappears into itself. 

Not just out of zeal for the reliable nude route of mailman,

But just to if only somehow fully swim into all your alienating attention again, 

Wade into the arena of your future presence just as where you will be, as if it was now,

And you've probably never had a user generated content magazine subscription before.

But if Boomers of a curlicue carillion of glass scultpure Hallmark mural,

Relinquish the world finally,

And no Boomers, we are not all going to sue you,

NO BOOMERS, WE WILL ACCEPT ALL OUR OWN INJURIES ALL AS OUR OWN, 

Despite all your reactionary provocation and aporia.

So quit using that as the defacto baked in excuse, 

It's been quite old, too tedious,

Because only you are the ones who believe it,

If you ever even really believe it at all.

But I promise,

As languishing credentialist clerks brow beat over-motivated autodidact,

As if only dominating the over populated field can be achieved simply by being fiery completist,

Or just to live enough to someday find the thermostat at the job site,

Raise the roof temp right up to one degree,

Then so consider that my contribution to entire finny day's collective work winds songing along the rim,

Then I will promise,

I will write down the times I wake on my own without an alarm, 

And in studying the natural variation of minutes to wake,

As clued in order to make broader, further, wide ranging, reaching self knowledge and epistemological discovery.

I will never dry dream a diary so to keep, because it's too exhausted too late to start by now anyways.

While you are just off somewhere else, and I could see you then probably so gay in the plain,

And, but, it's just at the very least, 

I would just only want to say,

I have always had if not but only an unexpressed and somewhat proud admiration for the unbridled immediacy of Hustler Magazine, as seemingly their radical rebuke in the midst to Playboy not ever showing kissing.

But yet otherwise, disgusted by all the pornographic audacity orgy of surplus of waterslide park lagoon obstacle course over plashing mini water wars, 

As service animals in life preservers remain un-baffled by the non-sequitur unlikelihood of all existence,

And euthanize the service animals for not knowing that if you could talk to god plainly, or direct to one to one, it would all just probably crumble into vanish, 

Like video game cartridge flipping at end,

Including in god itself de-materializing,

All well outside the reflection of some sweet avenue from scar off tear drop,

As engine engineering perpetual creation movement disappears for sometime too long,

Voiding nulling and paused,

Declawed itself like hearing punchline before pretty decent joke,

And when nothing would exist, 

Even you would not exist,

Even you past what borders nothing.

And my heart always trailed back to the someone's wife in the home photo mailed to Beaver Hunt,

That I seen in second grade,

Shocked and appalled by the guts on outsides explicit reality of the first time I ever saw edge of woman's torso,

But I remain got over quickly,

Though thinking about it for years, 

Not knowing how to ever fully digest it.

But it was as if Beaver Hunt,

Was the printing out of the entire internet,

And I saw the entire physical internet,

And the image of the entire internet was only but the image of the boarder between oblivion and creation, 

That we all could not stop looking at.

But I always pretty much knew there are things you just accept and never question,

Like how they can write and finish a complete newspaper every twenty four hours ceaselessly in infinitum, without ever missing parts or missing news.

The fatality of in house cartoonist not keeping a backlog and working surplus of jokes and ideas and sketch scenarios, 

And, but I just pretty much learned to let it all go,

Like not getting hung up on not knowing exactly how much tv watching causes pregnancy,

Or how impossible it is to take a cool photo facial expression without the knowingness attached to having acquired real success, 

When the real players know it's impossible to take a good face control photo of incidence without having a used to, constant prior adulation from peers and everyone around you then.  

It's just that deep inside, somewhere right in the middle, a lot by a lot,

Destructive forces encoded in our soul, that probably can only be somehow dealt with indirectly or directly, 

Like by resolution of sick beat DIY bashed chink-chink.

So for now, just stick it in a cove,

Or in cage with turtle dover stan Southie post pandemic twurdling footplant,

As the trace trance dance leaves is its air,

As blind populism still exists in an underground pre-emo retro-goth situationist graphic dance club,

Then put me up like a wad,

Place me away like a trike,

Understand the impulse not to go on because of indiscriminate impersonal blind worm-ed causality,

Is as if to say,

What dooms must do,

If since it would never by any means be as any close or near as any good, 

Is comedown so fromming,

And if you think about it, actually kind of makes a lot of sense,

Like the moon re-inspecting the sky, 

Only to have faded away.