Auto-Sear

_a rapid-fire blog. no editing. an exercise to try and i) reinvigorate writing ii) create better shapes through more trial & error_

A Glock switch (sometimes called a button or a giggle switch)[1][2][3] is a small device that can be attached to the rear of the slide of a Glock handgun, changing the semi-automatic pistol into a selective fire machine pistol capable of fully automatic fire. As a type of auto sear, it functions by applying force to the trigger bar to prevent it from limiting fire to one round of ammunition per trigger pull. This device by itself, regardless if it is installed on a slide or not, is classified by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) to be a machine gun, making possession of the device illegal in the United States under most circumstances.[4]

POEM

“Those Were the Days”

I dangle my legs off the eastern rim

Whereunder the world spills and crumbles

Oceans of salted wine, boil on the coast

Some aluminum clouds

Rocks like: jig saws, bone saws, lancets, écraseur, shark teeth

Haloes of whining terns

Magnetic sand

And dead dolphins beached in the rotted daylight

Hope has been tarred and feathered

Gum in the gutworks; needle in the eye

There’s a porthole in the world

Mutely changing gravity

My pushes are pulls, parameters feel off

I bleed when I bleed from the outside in- I shake at the thought of these places I’ve been!

Dogs slink in the courthouses

Babes busk for shillings in the street

(And the heat!)

Cymbal monkey / dumb money / hung jury / injury attorney

Biblically-accurate CFOs leech from the teat

A wreathe of snakes around my neck

A pool flamingo worth of microplastics in my testicles

Bury my teeth and

Kiss me so sweet

The blue mountains are old and magic in ways

Oh, those were the days!

A shearing white-hot light ripped across the eastern rim

My sunglasses allow ultraviolet to pour in

I sin, I sin, I sin.

Molested by time

I dangle myself off the topmost limb

You’ve heard the rumor

I’ve got an itch no thing can kill

Terns ululate- the sky is blue like melting ice

The rocks below look, how do I put this,

nice?

Washed in salted wine,

chewed upon by time

Grunge of the corpus; needle in the eye

Rogue wave on the eastern curve

We get the world that we deserve