“….the p[h]assions of the Marginalized Life, obscened in the Turning over of Hands, uber Evening & the City Devours toothless isn’t Deep Enough” – Boris Izsus
In his First Image, He sought to become what was hidden from his own View: The Embodiment of Personal Harmony. But upon Opening his Eyes, it was all, all before him, lacerated on Bached Borders, hidden in his own Impending Sum. & as the rain began, outside the Window, he broke into a Belief of Lack, without Reason
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But in the Second it was, as his Ideal Image was Fading, apparently Hidden by Subsequent Strained Events, the Black Birds began to gather & descend & it appeared they began Cutting into his Cheeks, so he Paused a Moment, to Prosecute the Belly, of it All.
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I have the Sneaking Suspicion, that I am on an EL Train slowly climbing to Hell. The Sluggish Qualities of Man, make it necessary to think about this. & one does------>The Voice will Tremble, as if Suffocating in an Octogenarian Sleep, or the Air that grows Heavy in Summer from a Loose Door ajar--------->The Hand that Settles.
& the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles the Hand that Settles----------------------------------------------------->Sorrow’s Grating Gravity.
or------------>the difficulty living with a Person.
The food slowly being exposed to my Vision in the slack-jawed Man’s Lips.
If I am Opposed to this, than I am surely Shameful.
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Thus to continually sleep in a flooding mouth of Dumbness & to awake again fucked through the force of a YAELP from a Head, displacing again, my Body here, there, everywhere into each fragile cracks the Face, towards an expanse of a burgeoning repetitionhead----------------------->within a disavowal of the staid Structure gutting down to the Meat---------->The Body, that is mine rummaging alone in a furious pace from Frame to Frame waiting to fury the fuck out----------->a Violence of pure surmise which I shall call the internal speech of an abyss------------->sectioning itself off from it’s old Form tumbling forth in its own combusting Howling the Trumpets we Sum----------->To which, I can respond, I have no place in the Entrance of your Appearance------------------------->Thus first to shed the miserable Force of things upon, upon me they’re against---------->My first Sound then, shall be the Principle of the Historicity of pula in my mouth, come----------->The di-lip: my entire Life in Repetitions--------->a Pharmacology of Dirt, the----------->non—civilized, please & the shuddering skin, assembling me towards a Subject, shall be of fucking,-------------------------------------------->& I shall be fucking subsumed thereafter.
In other words
In other words
Everything Ends, Everything Falls Asleep, Everything gets Beaten Down------------->
------------------>to only fucking arise again where I’ll assert my New Sum.
Or I'm Sore.
