There we go, a good clean Sweating-out of the Incipit. How primitively the Pores, Protract back.
It is now, that I am feeling euthanized, awakening in Snō, where the Daft Study of Touch, talks in a Bursting Series of Endless Questions, Inquisitions. Fuck that. This is recognition: Move motherfucker, Move. Someone always attempts to hopscotch the issue when this Question of my Nature is posed, I'm pissed. It doesn't matter as apparently, I've forgotten everything & always meet it Head-On in, I’m always Surprise. The thinnest layers of Emulsions. With my legs tied, my thighs Sigh. A steady increase in Drops. To the last dropped, expressed a Set of Objects, we'll Terminate.
Undoubtedly, every City, every movement, is forced to start somewhere.
Thus Body, as [em]Body/I image & the City I’ve always longed to be. I open within the Gut of a Succession of Steps & spatial the region I wish to inhabit. & it is thus, I land softly in your arms, zoning the area to overlap by Sweat, by Concrete, by Self by
~~~~
Body me
a Seduction
Spatially
subcutaneously
Inject me in
a City
growling out
the Calluses
& in the Blowhard
Kisses, slip
me into your
moving I
gasp a
Grasp.
~~~~
During the Daily Walk, we often stop talking mid-sentence, a ghastly procession of trashstorms bombard our attempt to Grasp this desire to become a single thing, but then there is this: The Blank Stage. But our hands touch everything, lovingly to Mouth, as a Shoveling. The swallowing decline is just a morsel of Reward.
I was raised with Gimpy Legs, but in time I learned how to Pound the Pavement to my will. Thus: Restrictions, Schmictions. Rhythm expands productively in Our Hands. My Sleepy Charityspank, deflecting all Avenues & Turns of the City. The City quite frankly, Boobs in my Lap.
A bullet precedes what it will. As a Target, I witness myself completely Transparent, looking back over my Shoulder, a smoldering Frost & in addition, a few Words sliding a shoveling towards what was once fondly thought.
"I adore you I / adore you"
So just move
Repeated breathlessly, is what I shall attempt to approach, in a Shove, that'll shove us into The Body of our "Bodies at Work."
I say again: Shove Me, Shoving You.
"But what is this shoveling that'll Shovel us?"
Surely, a Biting Down.
Thus: it does not matter that there was an underwhelming Sense of Emergency, as I was there, as always, to Shove you Up the Stairs.. The Derelicts of the Voice. Shoveon. The blossoming of plants, over Iron Bridges. Shoveon. My Lips at Noon. Shoveon. "Subject" the Sun, Stumbles out of View, so we just Shoveon. Untouched, underform Anatomy. Shoveon. Aging due to this Stress of getting to where I'm going. Shoveon. Impulse towards a Personal Doxology. Shoveon.
& really who'll Object?
& if so, Who?
Who? Who?
Oh just Move Motherfucker, Move
& let’s Shoveon
