2OFOOTNOTES TO A BRIEF HISTORY OF RIMMING THE RHYME OF MINE

⁽¹⁾ It was One’s Sibilant Descending into Moral Poverty

⁽²⁾ Traveling up North via the Red Vein

⁽³⁾ There is no Actual Architecture “Constructed There” beyond only that, which is, of the Disastrous Mudfucking of the Body Battling, what within-in-it, Whimsically changes Shape

⁽⁴⁾ “And on the Dime, Rimming the Rhyme of Mine…”

⁽⁵⁾ It was the Batiment Bestening of The Hunger, in itself

⁽⁶⁾ A Preposition that Precedes the Revolver Surpassing “In a Fashion” and Fitting

⁽⁷⁾ And How Absolutely Strange to Encounter again that “Oh-So, Human Touch…”

⁽⁸⁾ “I Haven’t Time Enough for Swallowing” She Said

⁽⁹⁾ He was like a Porous Young Boy, Folding in my Hands like a Fan

⁽¹⁰⁾ “Prolong Nothing, Thus, Remember fucking Nothing” He Said

⁽¹¹⁾ And To this Body: Nothing but the Storm of this Rain that Came

⁽¹²⁾ The Absence, of what Defines itself in Space: The Agony of a Singular Moment’s Boundaries

⁽¹³⁾ Your Abominable Presence Presides over and “However…”

⁽¹⁴⁾ It was a Touch that led me to something, Rather Homely

⁽¹⁵⁾ I Made Wishes for each of your Eyes seemingly Bent on Knocking on the Door of the Blind, and I did so, Writing these Words for you Feverishly, while drinking Scotch in Mid-Winter 2013.

⁽¹⁶⁾ We Cannot See the Disaster Ahead Thus: We Cannot Help but think of the Revenge that Might Await

 
 
 
 

⁽¹⁷⁾ The Body Functions as its own Antagonistic, Alliterating Architecture and to Posit this Phrase in another way, would be Overlooking the Fact that there is Nothing left to Conquer

⁽¹⁸⁾ However, We Must Assume (it) So…”

⁽¹⁹⁾ All We Wanted was Luxury, and Although, it was a Dead-End, the Question Presided Over Us: “And Why the Fuck Not…?”

⁽²⁰⁾ And this was to Speak, of Returning Before, the Beat, the Divide, the Point and Hand, Pressing the Head, the Ground, around the fucking Battement