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I Think I am Writing to
you tell you The Remittance of the Tectonic
(re:) cooronic Body, Flip-Flopping through this Curious Cacophony. The Only Pleasure: the Pressure of Desire’s Terrifying slammed
Ledger. But First: thy Pardon. Oh Boy:
Here is a boob, and Here is my
Hand, And Here it Goes, into my mouf.
Now: isn’t it One Grand Party, the
Fact, that I have Krept my Promise~? So, Back to
this Reaming: if I Denounce a Subject (—*this*—) and then Denounce what Denounces, This Objection (—i.e. Thit—) Becomes a Form,
that Forms a Bridge from an Unremitting-Lack
of Pleasure Coagulating into every Day’s
Tired Desire. Let me Slew, Ah Choo (in) you (in) Shoo—(in)—How. The Weight of my Body Slinking into a Seat on the EL, at 7:15AM sounds like: “I Have that
Desire, I Haven’t a fucking Idea.” Instead of Carrying-Over a Writing, I’ve Decided to Shit and Stitch. And this Problem Asunders (un)to Me. For: I Need the Conflict to Validate Me. For:
The Great Capanna Calamity Seeketh only
the Rift to Break a “Please…” so to
Blind all Others from thy own
Delight. For: Whether this Builds a Heaven, or Builds
a Hell, or Builds a Heaven in Hell, I
will Assuredly Follow the Leetle lull
of your Umbrellic Respite.
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