thereisaproblemwithdick'sdiction
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The Verse: (in) Body is not Rapture’s Ritual.
However: the dodildo and
My Rupture’s Repertoire. The Question: Should the
Distance between “What Collapsed” and “What Destroyed” be Widened in the gap, a Foot, a Fist, in the Ass~(?)
Might master deserves it own
Appendix~(?) And here We Ibid: Encased in the Foot,
an Ease with Which Chicago Calamities itself a Winter. The
Moment I “Get Hard.” My—(-os) is the
Pre- in the Pre-Sun-Up. I Obtain
that Desire, to Upchuck the Crowd, and Embrace Him. And Here, a Headline: i am barefoot, possibly naked, in the trunk, of
your seville. Or: an Urban Mom Against Nature’s
Imposed Speed that I Need. At my
Funeral, I Want a Thousand ‘Fuck-You—s.’ in
other words:---------àI’ll Shimmy in All My Does as My Shimmy
Done Does, until this in I, Be-Done. The Slightest Loss of
Attention, Surely, Leads one to the
Exhortation of Grace. For
the Moment I Appear as the Narrative
Janitor who Ransacked the Vascular of
the Thematic Passenger. There Must be a
Word that more Accurately Describes
the Rupturous ruin of the
Collapse, and Yet, Comically, there is
not. The Spectacle Becomes just a Receptacle. Both a vision and
of a Flaccid World Unseen.
Her Doorbells wills Rise and Swell to Sunrise. And Frozen Dick’s Diction will
Melt in the Mouth Beyond mere
Definition.
