or: Why not listen to / Listen to the Sidewalks Relocating under Our Possum Feet
What if, in this movement of my Body here, I opened to you, truly within, in which, I could offer you a Meal of Honesty. A Shoveling-Blubbery: It’s Thundering again outside my Window, clamoring me to an Embrace. It’s good to know we’re both alive outside of The West. In the Light Clap, my Face is thrown back at me from the Glass & it appears, it conceals a pull[ing] Down, towards a Rupture—distinct itself, from any exterior Topography & one in which, I will never Love. No, like a shitty personal archive of fluttering particles of my, surely my Face is dying away a No-Joke exceeding the limits of a Slow-Motion Crumbling in Sound. To an enact: A Fingering the Face till it forms, Foreign. I should also mention about the paradox of The Head. Sooner or later. I dream of my own reflection, inverted in which I see my own expanding Scream within the Drawls of my Slobbering Mouth & we Laugh together. Wait, Where was I?
Resolution, psssh, there is no revolution of Resolution.
Oh yes, Let’s speak about the
After all, I turn & there is a night before me of fucking & afterwards, there’ll be time for everything else. This is not true. The Mating period has not only been a period, Period but more fucking stupid than Usual. & to Boot: Fucking does not necessarily mean development occurs. During the Chase, I get easily distracted by this untiring repetition of an ever, open paralysis of the bitchslap an Attempt at Personal Organization “I’m sick in loss in stomach I fail” thus, to escape from the Gaze: align with that violent mode of being in Body in descending, I’ll form. Mouthing the Volume of Space that Divides Open, I proceed in such a way I structural a constraint to define a Communal Pantomime as a field of a distorted reflection. Let’s take a Breath.
We thus, combine to consume a womb of thoughts.
Oh really, it’s just the Simplicity of the Surface frustrates me, compelling me to unearth jackshit in order to begin to write, in order to conceive of the Impending Objection. So you know, I’m no longer talking about the Sexes. The unsettling movements of our two bodies demand speech, the theme of a [re]turning information in a Marsh Voice
[shhhh, hey here, c’mere, let me Nibble on your Ear]
space, is too hard
to say it
all in, Bends.
be our End.
But I tell you
the Time for
have to look
for our Escape
Blueprints: Whoops I
There will be disintegrations as you go, ruminating through rummagings, driving against an inert mass that just won’t fucking move, in View. This is my approach in trying to tell you something about eating. Accumulating in [sl]edge. My Stomach, is oddly Bulbous. Looking around & around what else to Consume? Perhaps my Body is nothing but a Theatrics of Mirrors, crowded within a foggy incision. My God, I’m starving. Forming a relief in a Delay, attempting to fiber myself out through a Hole. A Relief in a Burp. This Idea, repels me, which means, ultimately will Draw me Along it. See, I long to live in a dugout of endless digestions. I had a Mother, my Father fell around. Personal seasoning is a Knife. Razor in awareness. Riding the EL Train, in the Brumage of Spring, in evening, the sun begins to descend beneath the Frames of the Skyline & I wish to set it all ablaze. Blossoming then within the fires, melting the lips of those I love. Undercooked months, burned the mouth. There was a Storm rumbling in.
Though this constant hunger, ultimately alienates us from moments, defined
Meanwhile, I moved closer to the
I desired to see it all.
I opened my Eyes. I turned to my Left & saw strolling by:
the most Beautiful Black Booty I ever did see & it was then indeed, that I knew, I was no longer Hungry