i
am the gift that keeps one grieving
I am Wanting to Say: “The
Sounds of this Pigeon’s coo
is Synonymous with the Symphonic Tusk
of Bach, the Break, its Neck” is Rather Equivalent, to my General Refusal, to
Mix Calm, with the Steady Drill of an Anxious Life; Nothing of this Persuades that there is still some
Morsel left of ‘the perfect world’
And there is, even Apropos to this
City, Rehearsing in its Daily Interruptions.
in other words: The City as Pure (-ily) Rising the Primordial, and as a
Representation, my Aggression, Swings:
But Again, Instead. Last Night, She Whispered to Me: “I Hope
Tomorrow, Begins, as Precious as an
Impressionistic Background.” But Listen: Because We May, we May Remain. And to Say this, is to Say this, in the Closure of an Objection. But Baby: the Colon Weighs Heavy on What is to be Subjected up/on the Body. Likewise:
The Act of the Panic and the Ensuing
Fainting is My Ability to look fucking
Nonchalant among the Sleep-Encrusted yawls on the EL. in
other words: I am the Gift that Keeps One Grieving. And Here, I Interject:
a Beautiful Woman Situated on the Stare of the Dance floor; the Syntax of
Ellipses and the Glare of a Disinterested Glance. The Good-God glace
in Her Lips. The Preposterous Umlaut
of Desire that Might Displace the Fact, that I do not look at Anyone, and Avoid
Everyone. However: When I
think of you, I think of doorbells.
