the slow-droll from winter’s cold
And Because there are indeed, Things like this, there Comes the Notion that my Desire for you is not a Measure in which I
could possibly fit into this Speaking of you; for: the Mouth itself, is not a Sound collecting on the Surface;
and ‘How Very Silly…’ that this is
the Great Mystery that Delivers me to this Moment: an Odd Constraint in the Throat, that Reveals itself from the Eyes;
or: Unyielding in Marchs’ Slow-Droll from Winter’s Cold; Or: that I Slept up to the Alarm and
then some, Hesitant to Plunge into
the Ready of Day, Shrunk to Fit in
the Hand and the City’s Core; thus: Bunting, I’ll Relish to Prosper from
Leaving the Question of how to Proceed; and the Answer, of course: to Will the Self, Endlessly
and Pocketing each Bitched Rebuttal.
Thus Rising and Guising: it is so to Shelter from the Cold Astringency of Habitus and doxa and ‘Oh and Aye and Oh-Oh-My-My-My…’
And Ultimately, I Do My Dear Confess: I View everything in
Hindsight; in other words:---------------------------------------------------------------àfrom My Peepers Pinned in your Ass
