I HAVE AN OBSESSION WITH SPEEDING THROUGH
THE SHOULDER DURING SUMMER’S GRAVE TRAFFIC JAMS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Fear of The Domestic, is Not
a Misprint. So, I Stand on the Toilet
and Declare “Sing This…” in other words: Let’s Malpractice the Mouth. For:
It is Not my Business to be About the Social. For:
Living Itself, is a Graphic Stroke of
Personal Contraption. Impulse, Gluttony, Altercations and the
Obsession with Speeding through the Shoulder during the Summer’s Grave Traffic-Jams. She Said that I Should Try
Something Harder to Mask the
Age. And such Desires are Sewn into the Interruptions that are my Arousing
Arousals Against. The Face is a Moment in Movements and the
Time that I Forgot my Position. And Why-Not,
Come till Dawn. Patience Cannot be Taught; Therefore: Armsy Cannot be
Contained. Everytime that I am on the EL and the Voice
Says: “The Next Stop…” I Merely
Think: Well, that is Inconceivable. This was About Saving my Damn Lunch from the Runaway 66 Bus.
The Heavy Tenor of My Mother, Resembles Leather, Ill-Fitting Luggage and My Knees, Ma, they are raw. And Yet:
How Sweet the Length of Time my Morning Shits take. There is a Repetition in Tracing each Letter
in your Notes, that Means to say: “My
Dear, but I Too…” And I Arise the Idea of the Asinine in You. Everytime, I Think, that I am Finally Home, I
Contemplate: You are Stalking the
Intersection Between Damnation and
Mere Merry and Domestic Doodling. Regardless,
we still Arise each Morning, Aching-Away
from the Bed. “And I’m So Limp to Lure your Love.” This is the Chronic Idea that I am a Mid-June Chicago Day, Guised as an Arresting Alliterative Abstract. What Follows: a Destruction that I Will
Entirely Make-Up. in other words: Those Who Believe that
they are Warm, are not, in Turn, fucking
Romantics.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
