The Great Gaspy [or: The Repetition of, I've been Having Trouble Breathing These Days]

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“The 29^th Year of theVoyage, saw me, Growing Despondent” – Boris Izsus

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The Volume of this Sky↑ reveals its relationship with Terror. & the Weather has caught me, friable in these Month’s penetrations. Today, the Sun rose a few meters it seemed from where it Descended last night. Hmmmmm. What happens, if I were to Open my Eyes, at the moment slippingaway? Today: is a measuring of Antagonistic useless Units. Filing the anti-phlox. In one hand, I have the whole World it seems. In the other, a piece of Meat, my Cock, or is that Soap, malleable?

Howling------->we’re all fucking Howling these Days, melting our Bodies along the Banks of Snō.

Or that little Finger in my Mouth: my poor fractured little Bone. The Fuss of History. The nature of its very Structure, suggests it should just be Beamed in the Head. A little Brush-Off, my Plate. But where, where is it that I am to lay my Head?

Aye ai ai.

Yes, Aye ai ai, is a fitting form to cloak: I’m having trouble breathing these Days. Thus, how can I stretch myself so-------->so that I’ll be more becoming to you in my Wheezing Hobo-Pronunciation? This Question allows me to Assert, that there is something that Implies, a totalizing Distinction between myself & the Exterior World. Between language & my inherent Growrel.

At least the Lack is Consistent

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With the Breath Concern, the Limp Disappears.

It’s a Distance of Spacing, or moving Oneself moved a moving myself to be Destroyed in Beating the Breath, down. Simply, I’m announcing, nevertheless Dying, I want to remember Violently the End of my Memory upon each Season smears across the Cheeks & everything moves close to my Breast------>& it really does, but agitated, I want to unpreserve each Stuck Moment--->detonate each Passive Presence that presents itself in--------->bitchslap’it to the Side, I--->I’m Desiring greater than

this / this

Which signals the Tightening of Circulation, the dilapidated Pupils, the Lungs swell that Manifest Tenderly as if to Explode in Shower of Petals. Fucking PissAnts. I touch just so, so to oppose this momentary Absence of Breath, braiding me in a Trope or, Everything that has been said, Boils down to This:

We were brought here to Dig down beneath that Bitch of the Life bitched down like a little Bitch over there.

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Or maybe it all comes down to---->The necessity to “anti-writing” or “anti-tracing” but above all towards an “anti-mapping” because my dear there are no Coordinates to prepare for the “Anti-Breath”------->the White Crow’ll detonate the Black Birds’ll denote

“Nothing after this, Comes so / here I Comes”

Or, one will say “Fair Enough, alright------->I’ve had Enough”

Which is a Sissy Myth.

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Now pivot around this Concept

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Thereby, whose Time comes, shelling out the Incredible Nature of-------->Sings the Possessed on I’m Faced------>the Shadow disintegrates along my Breathing [Subject] which would [Activate a] Movement----->Movement, such a Word, confuses me------>Leaves Open--------->for Detour-------->I, temporizing the Chestsqueeze in Delay--------->a Movement opposed--------->well, on the Next movement I, in Breath---------->I lay.

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The beauty of the stugglingbreath, is a Subject backed down, to only it’s own desiring------->an inscribing of it’s own Breathing which would be the anti—strugglingtobreathe but before I can finish this Train I am / are Speeched:

“I’m Outtsa Here”

Thus, a Closure of Opposition, to accuse an Operation whose Basis--->consists of the breathease-->places me at------>stake I, the effect to Force, forces me into this continual unfolding of a Repetitious Return----->To Breathe--------->is at Stake-->as a Detour----------->breathing upon a Steroidal Reserve------->the moment I open within Pleasure, is simple------->to Pleasure an aiming back at Pleasure pleasuring the fact that

We is / are Pleasured is

a Pleasure this / has been a Pleasure

& that is evidently fucking Evident

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The very project of Breathing constrained into a Construction of Writing------>this Simple Movement, in which I lose, a certain detail of the Present, remains hidden beneath this Tensed Facial Guise----->as if, to be “myself” somewhere full of concerns this Tracing Discourse of the Structure of Catching-up-with-Breathing, in Delay, this limit makes me Tremble Entirely------>I shall Muffle the Mouf so as to proceed slowly, so as to Disappear the Sign of the Sign upon the Sign deciphering without Voice I sign-------->a Distribution of Persistence enmeshed to Nerve

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Thus, even if, this Breath seeks to pass beyond me------->an infraction of / in Silence would result in an Infiltration--->of the Steroidal Reserve------>a “Mute Breather” or, play thus---------------->

----------->What I will Propose here------>The Totality of this Field above, in my Mouth, towards a Development of a Roving Responsibly. To inhale a Consumption of it All. An Eye calculating the Expanse without End--------->in the End------------------>well, it all fucking Ends doesn’t it.

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Doesn’t it?

Or rather, to let Impose, upon me, the interlacing Dominant Line to Tie, through the Years, I came to be a Roving Question------>a “Munching Mark”------>The Great Gaspy, Tombed in Effect------->I just cannot let you in---------àwas about my Condition-------->troubles my attempt to hold you in Front of Me.------->Attempts at Squaring the Eyes produced, within themselves, White Flashes in the Vision-------->examining their own, Structure Operates as Such------->Vanishing I’m into Sight--------->a Dubious Dipshit------->But from this Point of View: I’m hanging in a Strange Space, attempting an incredibly Inhale---->presented as such------->resieving myself as a Hole-------->in Expository Disappearance we Go.

I await to reventilate my Lungs—as I too await to document this coming Flood

Or:

For now, I’ve made a Point:

I’ll be an Absolute Prick in my next Departure.