THERE IS
PLENTY THAT IS PRETTY ON PARKER AVE
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To Desire, as to this Love, is to Dance around a Disaster, as the Shy but Knowing Master. Motherfucker: that Woman IS my Father. And Yours (to): // is to (be) the // Bloviated Psalm. Here:
there is no way, that I Can Describe the Desirous Nature of my Words and all
that Lies even Further
Underneath. Aye: I Would have Knocked that jaw Right-Off, And-If-I-Could, Leapt from the Terrace, and Landed Across, and Into,
a new City, that was In-Step with(in)
my own Making. And so it Came to Pass: that even the Seasons Came to Disappoint
Before their Arrival. By the moors the Dreams of Seas-Sang. Pleasures Throttle Desires as Desires Whittle Pleasure, and there are Truly,
only as many Bodies as there are Disasters to Dish-Out. And both thumped in the
Early Autumn by the same Damn
Breeze. A Disaster is an Event that is
not Initially recognized as such, and
a Body is a Constructed thing in the
Mind, that the Mind needn’t Recognize as
Such. in other
words: this is a Vanishing Point,
just as, this Vanishes (on) the
Point. To Gravitate-Towards, to Love, the Nature of that, that is Unkempt. In-All-Honesty: I am Probably Waiting for you to Spit in my Mouth,
as a Stately Rhyme, Blowing-Itself
into a Contorted Gymnast. And This-Is-All-So
Tossed-Off and the Anti-Serene, I
Mean, the Horror of my Body, at
Night, at Rest, Horizontally. in other words: Bring on the Baraga of Fists, the Bombers over Clark, the Slitting-In of the Sun and My
Love, this World is but a Growling-Growing
(in) of Grief. For: what is blu Collapses and what is Red-Faced in this Face Mapsises.
For: it is but our Hands that are
Cold. For: Our City Knows-Not
but Winter. For: These Early-Autumn
Leaves Might-Be, and but, The-So-So is the Heart so. And this Deepened in the Ear and Pitched for
Days. And Now: You just Feel like Indulging
in some Bubonic Observations, Baby.
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