"A matinee of sunshine ribbons on a sheetless mattress.
Moonlighting as swooning; moonlight isn't really from the moon at all.
I am shining smiles and flowery glows.
I am drunk in the breeze in the park chasing kites and splashing puddles: forget me knots in my gut, that's what you get.
We nibbled butter cookie rings to the knuckle. Artichoke trophies choked down through Nevada sandy enzymes, past ribs choking scorching hearts, down to an autotrophic stomach.
I called her June, until that late spring, quite possibly march leap year: automatic trophies aren't shit."
Tim Kinsella may be out of his mind, but he can throw words together. I'm a sucker for his word play and his imagery. His manic, frenetic delivery only adds to the scene he creates.
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