where were Breuer and Hering when our first sample of howl noised all over the multifarious cosmos as the master pitch, the institutionalized matriarch that could ever either announce or bounce  birth to miss divine authorship entitling a goddish title or commend whereas what was left out for them summed up to be a mere discovery and we do deal don’t we with quite as much predatory as variegated forms of inflation the first to be evinced is the very first inflating of our lungs expanding and contracting and expanding and contracting as if we were witnessing a draconian drone a dueling dance between oxymora and pleonasms some say the oxygen that preserves us stainless is the very same that rust us next stop underground when we share ideas we thought for our own and try to organize their neurons so that they can safely carry electricity and thus enlighten how much of the sparks need we rid of and how much of them should we spoof to keep the orgasmic flickering driving our interest and the so called comprehension try to imagine music without bars signatures rhythm and tempo would it be a surreptitious betrayal to pleasure or else or is the ocean which runs over the metronomes for a fact excommunicated from the tidal orchestration like heartfelt tears wipe out from a baby’s face with the help of steel wool tissues novelty comes from a nonchalant devotion of welcoming bias free the air and everything that comes with it keeping Breuer and Hering as one carries a cameo to remind them of what could’ve been at most but most and most and most of all as one carries it feel how much it weighs for their hand not how handy they could or should be alas the best comparison about the powerful impact of mass novelty I can come up with is on the occasions we fetch our dogs we flip a fib that turns and leaps in the air, sometimes it captures on its way the sunlight blazing our eyes with seduction we race the race and we bite the bite and when our tongue tastes the rib I mean the fib and gets no flavor out of it too late it is halfway down the throat we swallow it and feign to digest it until we crap another gem at the break of the day breathing and meaning are yin and yang of trying to concoct a continuum over the road of discoveries roads shouldn’t be paved they should be if laws were not lolly lares waived


About Bernardo Bolt Gregori

Bernardo Bolt Gregori is a poet who has recently moved to the countryside where he is ecstatic to learn from the birds and squirrels and bushes various abstract and obstupefactive ways of dwelling and swelling as a human. A solipsist serendipitist more concerned with his better half than his worst multiple, he’s a hundred per cent one third fleece, one third shears, and one third sweater. Publications? Tuesday Shorts, Flashshot, Daily Love, 3am Brazil, among many others. BLOGS:
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