MISFIT DOC: | Ex.plo.sion No.i |

The trick is to focus on tea poison, luminous in the fill of walls.

The liver sinks in honeycomb, tiled rooms across the zeros of fake skin, took notes on a tongue-ivory-conception.


Beneath the cream layer;


            machines at side are in place.


Within, is a stark rectangle, set kindly upon fox fur.

Join our hand in a single magic trick. This mad math; ozone layers touch fingertip layers, jello pressed molds build a bridge inside a hat.

News stands of denial, (Manny, stern in an upside down plot, to erase remnants of town,) Hung his hat at the distance of a firehouse, one long hand out of the window, strong odor perhaps followed him around [a ghost.]

Years grow down to the water, the time drinks.



Ice triangles hang from his lift, his pulley hand, a bench out in the park.

A fire bird

rolls up on

the bike track.

Runner shorts in a blue “banana” (Rochester plates)

eyeballs -wrenches clients, learned zombie speak –       out to the vertical undertakers; pulled clients to the hills, to paint their nails glitter, because cops hate glitter

I.e: (glitter witch) nudged a bicycle onto the overgrown race track and shook down peeled oranges they have her stood in.


|   air signal   |

“The ways in which we are fashioned to town.”

To adjust our levels, allowed clients said this signal has become as.toun.ding.

“All the money you made on that guiney pig race, their gonna bring out the whoop ass(…)”

I would really be interested in . deconstruct of this whole radio station. and with the help of other, more experienced aspects of myself, put the whole town back together properly.


I am under oath / sanctity.

An iron, mechanical body adheres glitter witch to this inferno— radio knob, for versions of her glitter window.

Glitter witch wants “play songs” spoken to the speaker,(Mind games)1 She has done this dance for (vertically) unknown hours, and arrangements, the beat of the hardwood against a spunout bike rim, She’s seen this music corrode on the entire palace of rats a dozen times.

Fur hands reach toward (Mind games)1, to play one more time at the park, on 1600 Tower Blades.

The first rule, She imagines with Arnet glasses, hidden behind the wheels of the car, to establish residency in the woods. She could not decide the rules, as they were all vid-played backgrounds of the oak trees, but not the actual address, spun across the pond. She tramps through the overgrowth into the high hill of the park. The teenagers smoke and throw their butts into the water. Pink blurs camp on her side-view-mirror.

Mountains must be explored, needles in the house, Glitter-bitch needs to remember a hundred storefronts.

The time is correct on the control panel, this too has contorted magic over our mind, this also plays a game with our emotions, dealt out hours, pulled in ropes to moments~

Our mind game is frozen, a box of frozen toys drifting along the tank, fish tank, the tank.

Glitch-niche will find the cage that peels back the skin of the mind, to heal this erupted valve, deemed useless, forget-about, never-to-examine-more.

The Tables have Turned and Turned Forever, this is THEE examination, She dusts on the floor for prints, gears toward the illuminations of the past, ‘forgot’ is no longer in the partition of ‘memory.’

This is too small to remember, the tapes on the D file are of interest ~


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General motion factors include: sinking in the suit – determining which coats, green drool, fortified in the mobster-monster. “Chest pocket of the rope coat, leave slack and a fringed ever-clear edge,” this way sorting               data from the over cocked silence will be as easy as “chairs stacking corners of the rooms.”

Determine a frequency under the alpha delta spectrum, including theta ruminations, which can be utilized for further               stark, street looping, designed to factor in yelling points.

To turn down the room in radon carbonation, sub tropic layers are simply declined in mass boats, so that hoarding the shore (on a pinpoint of the first fractured shale retort) is a Lengthwise fragment blur, rising through the winds on a crossing day.

We are zoomed in on, by one of the larger fraction equipment teams. There, lethargic, reunited, stale in our gloss jewelry, will find beneath the armpits a golden soil, like mud. Leak down narrow hallways of laughter and light, the remembering umbrellas of skylight orange popsicle cream that were once sun’s drool, in the length of those holy, pressed walls,         the luxury tastelessness.

That only once we can recognize the shape as being two dimensions flatter than the ozone (tired unhealthy from drugs.) To let the years into the equations, turn to its side, the ride in the boat to the shore line of frost bitten cheek bones, emerge throats and tongues without placement in the guts. Our harmony, underneath absolute bone line. Our marrow of the future, signified in dust what art was once able to express in us, this significance of darned socks and the line of our dreams.

To the shape, we whisper elongated retina (of syllables) to free the gross knots in our consciousness. Forever tongue tied, behind the avenues of lace, park in lot number seven, or pale filigree designed in the fabric song.

That sharp glare in a limp of frogs tumble toward the horizon, half bleak neurology sudden in light cast. Form, (wrought iron symbolizes) that great fall, a moment from within, where hairs leave the stereo to the light of magnification (ten percent and beyond.) Pull in the lever of the clock to separate moments, torn between blurred glass. The sudden numerics frosted over with cigar stained fingers, peel away dimensions so they reveal lichen. The pattern language beneath, numbers which tell us the identification, which breed of light one might have stumbled upon. Nevertheless, drool sneaks off of a chin and the one who remembers drains ancient posits with a sneaky suspicion, does his job without notice of great diamond stance; spins mid center the chiseled concrete beneath, movements fascinate the mind. Arrived on all points within one snug on the fraction, a calculator that can be traced back to the origin, a musculature where all dances form and fray, and decompose with twist away, instead of through the next position on a mapped foot.

One step aligns, then falls naturally to its side caught in three chances before stumble fairy fall directly underneath its space bounce. The dress flails up into the air, stagnant for a continuum, a misted ox water molecule. Spun out finch that dissolves to the ravenous facial feature, there we watch the growth of a man’s beast eye. The slip down from their rooftop, and into shape near the local hamster festival room. The wheel spins (almost) already before we can ask to enter. The rug is one catch upon their fold arms, stuck in the sky; one leg removed of the pressure and curled beneath the other, one steadied now upon a knee and one that expels that bath of light before an extinguish device made of pure bird fraction, Explosive membranes that align chess game pieces to the mathematics used for repeat stimulation, white light that washes over an entire dance. Halos for all of its interact members, reclusive at first until order is presented in permanent modes. The days lead up to features, arguments, and room for one ( / ) all verified symbols in the group pattern language.

All steps had begun to take place right as the arm let down into the lake beneath concrete floor, some (asshole) had installed our break in the system Abraxas Druid Cooperation Dream. The one found object licked from the roof of the mouth, a pleasant moment, before the drool spread over the dance, and practiced each string of leak sound, to turn one hand awkward and into the face of the record device, pressed flat against our glass spread of cold skin. Not sight for this before, I had a hyper manic moment. I might flail towards her dynasty, undress my form and dance there in secret next to the plate glass design. Unknown beneath our nostrils, the far edges of the fraction, (which I hadn’t explored as thoroughly as I had apparently rehearsed) in ADX Continuum. Repeated thoroughly from room to room. Turn to a room behind me, the ground I noticed seemed to grow food, small seeds poked through as the feet stamped into their aligned steps. Before years, there was this layer, this manic stage repose the dancer inside of her diamond.


Write a letter to yourself and secret enough so that you know what you know, you do not know what you do not know and make yourself blind in every secret, all faculties must whisper to keep a secret from you, the author of this letter, this package, yes it may as well be a full on package, but you must not know what it is there inside of it. Whip your mind into shape for the plastic coat it will be, suffer from this way you can be ready on the day a post office decides to open again and deliver you your own mail, sent to say Canada and then back to your house in say Arkansas. That would be a good place to send it. I want to teach myself to whisper all of my secrets into the jars I have impossibly hidden (yes) again from myself. So that I may play hide and go seek with myself. This may take some practice or some time, or maybe I should just shoot for (shakes head yes like good idea) Friday. Miserable soup fetish I’ve got there, some stark or an optometrist stationary I should dumpster some of that for this letter thing. I might not want to pay postage unless its really scary how good I hide things from myself while introduced to them. This might be me try too hard again, I might break some part of myself if I try too hard. I could use rubber bands for some, maybe I could connect them to a switch that adjusts the pen from another room, (or a pencil, paintbrush) I may still know what I am doing, the achieved goal would be that I have no idea what it is that comes in the mail. I don’t want to waste time in written others because I know that they don’t use it anymore (the post) unless they want some from me.

I guess I’ll try a napkin for some, too. I’ll cover my eyes with it? And try to plug my ears? Maybe, Oh! I got it. A record of me say gibberish! I could close my eyes, plug my ears and say gibberish. Or Oh, I know I’ll put music on really loud and try to say a poem but the recorder can only hear me, then I’ll take some drugs that say YOU CAN’T REMEMBER SHIT and I’ll dial a number on the phone and then hang up and they might call back and I’ll say I need drugs and hang up and they’ll call back and yell stupid American cliché profanity at their iPhone and then they will dial the police and have the police trace my phone number and I will just get my mail when American cliché, while trying some astro-mental (sic).


Zachary Scott Hamilton is the editor for Mannequin Haus. His work appears in The modern anthology of surrealism (Salo press 2016) 

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