2O FOOTNOTES TO A BRIEF HISTORY OF KICKING THAT SHIT INTO PARADISE

⁽⁰⁾ I had no other Form of Expression but my Slew of Grief

⁽¹⁾ “This is not an Adequate Description.” He Said

⁽²⁾ That “Being Alive” is Always “Put into Play” through the Act of “Being Under Siege” in other words------------------------à”Being Alive” is a Comedic Play of Violence, of Deceit, and the Betrayal, if Enclosed, is our Beautiful Imbecility of Laboring towards this, Endlessly

⁽³⁾ “This is not an Adequate Description.” He Said

⁽⁴⁾ And it was a Form of Manipulation and of a History that no one before had Bothered to Write

⁽⁵⁾ Now: Only Literally Shall I Quote the Barest bark

⁽⁶⁾ When I am Confronted with your Presence, I am Enveloped in my own Private City, as in, I am Fully “Out of My Mind” and Fully “Into my own (-err) Skin” where the Cliff, thus the Disaster, is Always, about Teetering on the Edge of your Image, whereupon if the Threat of Falling became Manifest, my Private City would Dissolve, and I would be left, to Contemplate, some Sick Form of a Blossoming into Another’s Horizon. 

⁽⁷⁾ “This is not an Adequate Description.” He Said

⁽⁸⁾ Thus: I Making up for, so much Time, so much Belated Ground, that I Hereby Refuse to Subject Myself Further to a Pleasure that entails a Stirring and Bitter Representation of an Economy

⁽⁹⁾ “And Because I do not Wish to Understand, I am Terrified…”

⁽¹⁰⁾ A History as such and then Kicking that Shit into Paradise

⁽¹¹⁾ I Haven’t a Face, but I Got’sa Hell of a Mouth (all) on Me

⁽¹²⁾ It Came upon Me like a Speck of ice: the Autumnal Gorge of Slithering into a Warmth; the Digestion of Attaining what Glorifies, or Coagulates and Smooches the Face’s slummed Lining to the Point of Tackling the Sensation of Aging Being an Act of an Attentive Ass-Chafing

⁽¹³⁾ And Still: the Snō Refused to (in) Fall

⁽¹⁴⁾ Thus: Happiness Stirs where Miseries once Occurred

⁽¹⁵⁾ “This is not an Adequate Description.” He Said

⁽¹⁶⁾ Or More Precisely: I Wish to spend this Month Contemplating my Formal Attachments to your Ass

⁽¹⁷⁾ So the City Became a Bit More Raw to (in) Touch

⁽¹⁸⁾ It was Everywhere your Body, Thus, the City once was Pummeling a Subject I Thought: Shrill in January’s Air

⁽¹⁹⁾ in other words---------àan Objection Paves the Way for these Words that Stampede forth and Trample any other Voice’s Path, so to Ensure, the Propel, the Collection, of Samples, of your Skin’s Salt, at Dusk, Against the Blur of Defeat

⁽²⁰⁾ And Then She Said: “Now Bitch, Take a Seat…”