ahemahemahemahemahem
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And the
Amen Hour. Today, I Feel that I should Shove-In and then
Combust (in) some Baudrillardian Cool System of Production, or:
Develop a more Fecund Method of Advice: Desire can be Rerouted to
Produce the Avoidance of Settling-In-On Pleasure. howrel (this) in to. And
Let it be Known: that IF a City is a hoax, a Handshake, with Fingers
behind the Back Crossed, it is still but a City Still. A Man Eating in
the Kitchen, in the Dark, at 3AM, is as Lonely as He’ll Ever Be, Ever Was: Exposing
the Historical Toll of Romance. How goofy to think that I Might eventually
Attain a Level of Self-Control. A Pigeon Criminally in Brusque
Befuddlement. Jumping Rope to Pinpoint my Body’s Shame. That N. is the very
Sole which Stabilizes my Walk. And as it is Occurring: the Anxiety
of My Health’s Anticipated Demise. As If: that Object, could
be a Body Sprawled across my Lawn. When in Doubt: Always
take the Spill. in other words:
“Foot the Bill, you Hick~!” The Remnants of my Memories are getting Cold.
This, I Think, Hardly Matters. What Does Matter: I am Trying to
Make this (all) as Clear as a Lisp to Lionel Logue. I Mean: it was
the Muggiest of Julys without a Hint of Reprieve, until those Winds came up
from the Lake and Burst through, Manhandling those Hospital Shades, and
that Little Bambino was Stretched-Forth into this City, as Cold and Hard
as the Steel Bars that Rolled out of the Mills of Wisconsin Steel, 1980.
In the End: it was the Beginning of a Matter of Taste, like Chicago, Succumbing
to this Date. By Who Ever, Intends to Spoil~? The Appearance of the
Back of the Hand: Sluggish, Cold and gloomy in Temperament. The Quiet
Dignity, which Constructs one (into) Self-Withdrawal. That’s a
Big and Terrific Issue, My Friend: keeping Myself from Crushing
You. Ah, but the Rule of Thumb for (in) Some: Never Touch,
Never (in) Mind (as) Mine. And I kept telling Her: Things
Don’t, they just fucking Don’t. And Although: I am not a
Pigeon, just like the Journey we Never intended This to Be, What I Now See,
Turns the Tables (right) on Me. The First Time that I
Came, was to Whitney, the Wonder Years, 4PM on some Weekday and that Shit be
Clear. The Subject is so increasingly Obsolete. The First Time that
I Witnessed another Man Coming, was a Tutorial, in a Sock, The Ramones: Road to
Ruin, his Mother, (up) on the Door, And Banging.
Skittle when I Spoken is (in) to. A Rope Shoved up the ass,
as a Lifeline, will just Never Do. Aschewed and sore, to a
Default. IF However, this Products like a Hymn (in).
in other words: I Got’Sa
too much Time, (on) Myself. Taking a Grounder to
the Groin to Attain its Hold. This is Becoming the Story of Witnessing
Myself Meeting Myself. notice: A Period Oddly Coagulates
a History. And Baby-Blue, let the Motherfucking Crowds Snore.
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ahemahemahemahemahem
