And Regarding Desire and its Noisy Routes:ß-----------àthere
is a City, (is) in (this) || And I Thought:
Everyday, my Body Rejects the Reject of
junk and Itself: Blissfully, Anew, (as) I Snoo.
And You: Shpittle of my
Crown. I Contemplate and Initial a “Bah…” over my Prey. After
Babel: in a Struggle, a Position, a Possession: a Powdered Keg, to Set Me
Ablaze in Stateliness, and Operatic
Grace. And that is All that my Contemptuous Nature would Assume to Assuage. I Open my Eyes and she is Swirling Before Me,
like a Hooded Figure amidst the spunk of
an Alley. “The Constant and Cankerous Commentary
of Desire is so fucking Slō / The Simplest Stutter can take it Years / to
roar and Rumble / to Mutter.” Aye-yai-yai:ß-----------àand
Engineered by the doom of Twilight
in the City, the Resulting Image: Her Syllabic Aquatic, her Sinister Lullabitic Strutter. And a Man
Always does, Marry his Mother. Strike of
my strike, Ravaged on the rump of
thy Gavel. Here is
a Secret: I Cannot Make
myself Cohere, And Thus: All the
Rest, Follows (in) Suit. This is just Whittling-Away at the Muscle of
Silence. Being Mute: that Gots’ta
be Real Tough. Aye, Inspiring to be Donne,
while Aspiring to be Caught up in
Girl’s Panties and Shit. To Fill the Rage in Order to Become a Good
Time romp. All Salute for Man’s Pompous Precedings. And Say: I May this (in) Day: an Epiphyte, and
a Love but at Rest, Suffers no Fools. The Way Regret, Runs its Way into a Life and Paves Itself, a Col-De-Sac in a
Neighborhood. Galloping-Down a Johnny-Walker Black on the Rocks and then the
Stare of the Old-Fashion. And Convinced:
I ruin the Sponge of the Mop, and stop.
And I Am: in Spite, of my Tomfoolery: as much a Bridge, as an Isolated Arpeggio. And Regarding Pleasure:
I just wasn’t fucking Prepared. The Answer, in a way, was “Yes.” But Listen: there is a Great Anxious Beauty to your Face when
Experiencing the Throttle of a
Tackled Desire. Okay, We’re turning now and “Giving
Face” to the next Sentence Before it
Strikes.ß-----------àThe 2013
White Sox are to be Absolved, but not
Held in Faith. The most Graceful Motion
is that of the Boxer’s Body after the Final blow.
The most Natural Motion is The Faint. in
other words: I am Slipping the
Self into an Ill-Fitting Sleeve. And Navigating the Unmitigated Grace of a Prank.
