BLANK, BECAUSE BABY
—for R. Kelly
(…) the Body begins
as a Word: becomes
the proper Digestions
to cleave: me Face
cleaving, means
to “sling to”, ------>
how I cut through
the perception
of our Hands feeling *this
through *this Conjunct
razing of The Face, in
eye in thought: “*this
was, (is) how I (is)
becomes (in)
quite (is) Full
(in)” bullshit
building, myself
from the design
of a line, towards
the constantly
reforming Structure
of a Crack
slinking over the Landscape
escapes
from an Image, unfolding
itself as an Event
where All, appears a Head
penetrating a Void
prior to *this will
be the Sign
of the Fact with
that
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
YOU’RE MY DREAM
—for R. Kelly
(…) at my end, things
have no limiting
effect on The Body
as an untamed
aesthete engaged
in the Barking
termination
of a Figure
housed a focusing
in on Chewing
of the Observer
stretching across
that which envelops
you, wherever
you Problematize
the empty
area filled with a Face
folding
in your Hands like
cloth folding
up the Blueprints to
what struck
you as Personal, was
and had, in some
half-assed way, always
been
your Point of
Departure
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
POPSICLE
—for R. Kelly
(…) in some ways *this
is never Excessive
enough-------->even so
my Little Booty Brick
of Perception: thinking
in the City, today
“to (be) cut apart”
to divide, to ultimately
thud in the fleshment
rising to you
in your Face: the order
of something
odoring the Skin
is to be thought of
as an Object, moving in
you are perceived
as something cleaved
a part, from itself
briefly
filled
with light, with day
with my Touch
coupled with *this
coming
“to come”
to cut apart
the Face, from the Body
from *this, to which
there had, there is
been the need
for more room to move
the Body, as one
mudfuck of Flesh
with the Heart
turning, slowly
inside
out with all the Figure’s
dilemmas
moving to the sum
of the Crack
back on the Bed
was “Who”
whooing
“Who”
in Action—[?]
steve roggenbuck, the shitbird of hyperbole
