asphaltsunderaugust
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“Everything
that was Directly Experienced,
Relocates into a Rectum of Repression.”
And my
Theory was as Follows. A Fear of
Committing to a Singular Comment on Desire.
I Booked the EL and Began a Series of Preposterous Portraits. That:
this Ass Inclined Across the Page. That: this Lusts After sass. And That:
this Ultimately, Culminates in the Depiction, of your Face, which is Either a Paradise or the very Bottoming-Out of Hell. Meanwhile:
I Ask, Okay I Said: to Consider this
to be Led by the Hand to the Exalted
Expanse. How Daft (was) this coo was. And Falling Asleep, I
Thought: I Want to Upend (in) You. To
Keep the Grief Steady throughout what Pleasure Pinches each Piece in the Night. Oh: the Ferocious Cornholes~! Or at least: let’s get fucking Riddim of Him. There is Something, Slowly Coming-Into a Face, that is Composed of
Ornery Things: Knuckle-Cracks, Broken
Bottles, a Slow-Forming Fist, Tires,
Asphalts under August, Jamokes and so
much fucking Porn. in other words: I Desire to Incinerate because of what I was Boxed Into-To, Boxed-Up-To and then
Mopped to Stop, because I Miss You. I Am Anxious Again and Unable for Anything
(is) or (in) Else. In Five Days, you’ll
be the Object Primitivized that Chaffs into my Dreams. Now a Collapse, now a Leotard with a Moral
Advantage and a Modicum of sooms that Areas all over my Vest in a Sweat. For: Desire Comes in Many Guises, but never is to be Mistaken for Leisure. in other
words: You can Resist, or You can Carry-On,
but This and I, in it, as this, is Here: And
End.
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