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.