"There are Secret Alleys, in
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The Body began to bulge in the icelight, burns from this word: mymymy I sees The Land[e]scape before thine eyes/this Attempt at Howling to teach The Eyelash the Anticipation of Personal Loss, which funnels Down to the Dogs Down There---->through the Jugular in your Hands that Split at the Seams in the Transition from a Singular Life to the Engulf of the World---->Shattering a Single Loss to a Flossing The Body out to a Tussling it all out in Revenge---->& Then when necessary, you assume the Form of the Child with the Gauze Gazed in Abrasions, the Drying Skin along the Mouth, in the Corner, resembling a Lard of Love & through The Window, you fucking see it all, in The Man in your Hand, Faces a Destruction in the View & The Asunder of the Acrobats cunning in Sweat, cunning in their Own Dreams of Decay---->Which was the Iron Gait of a Vein, Dilapidating along Someone’s Else’s Dream in which you Swim in the Sliver & Engage the Hounds at The Jaw, to the Temple of Your mymymy You’re Gutting at the Gut Thee guts at The Knowing: My Child is Dead & there is not a Drop of Water which might Spring ‘em back to my Loving mymymy---->your Arms Love the Break of this, or the Break of that at the Hips & the Boning Drone of the Stones that Met your Pretty Little Face, along The Avenue where The Trees had Blackened to a Blackening Build of Blackening the City around Black---->so to leave those who Remained, dragging their Honeys from the Waste who now were just Names, just Ash, just Willow, just Film in the Reel, just Nothing & the Trains that Arrive, bring Nothing to Mine Eyes that my Discern me from They who have Passed to Pay the Pillaging Price of The Soil to Crust---->& How then everything eventual fades in a Contour of Sadness leaving us all with The Fewer, to the End, to the Face—[ing] the Crook of each Winter alone, which begins to Astound as it comes around The Bend, around the Corner of a Room, where it is pleasing to View the scantily clad Lady in the Margins in the Curtains Parted, Glowing in the Fatigue which Beset the Feast which Beset the Premonition of these Odors that Rage from The Soot when the Beginnings begins The Count, begins The Beginning to Blind me begins----à& The Wind, positions us now in only a Vague Sense, a Vague Proposition of our Condition that was Doublevision---->Thus, do not sleep so cross-eyed against The Walls we, withdrawal, as it was all inevitable in this Flowering of the body in its own Filth. It’s easier to Land in the Depths of Things, thinned in the Hinge of The Flooding that occurs in the Evening &---->This Story begins: Sink in the Fingers. This Story ends: Fingers in the Sink---->Interspersed in the Belly with Stones that weigh you down like a Baby crying in the Down South does---->The only thing that Moves, you’d delineate in a Degree of Death---->Such are the Quarries of the Sign, such are the Stubbles on Face which seems to denote just another Personal form of Rubble, incarcerating us together in the Rough Terrain in which we Lamp in the same Silence or, delay in an Echo of mymymy---->& yet History was the shove that Expansed upon Thy Frame, upon Thy Foot, upon Thy Back, buried in the Rumble in the lowlow lowlands went The slowlow dead dreamings of The Body’s blow----à& in The Heyday, we used to say in the Upperpeck “I got my Hunger Framed in my Heart” like gloom, like iceice like in Secret I’ll whisper to you about iceice my Dirty Solemn Parade Light------------------------------------->[ At the very Heart of this Enclosure, the Force & Face which turns itself in/on a Personal Oddity, meandering under the Surface in which silly Questions might arise such/as such/as---->am I well-versed enough in the total bodyfall of a breakdown, as opposed to a little ninny Degree of a Breakdown Baby—[?]---->thus mymymy, it may be that the Atmosphere in which I Fall within a Circus of Moral Failures, covering the Expanse of my Tiny Age & the Resistance of which, is ultimately Swept away---->or, how my Accent falls differently upon whom I am speaking am, Anxiously Desiring the swoon & The Devour myself as Sludgefest—[vis—a—vis] ---->The Story of how my Perversions grow along my Nightly Hummer, reversed in slump Movements---->action’s dicatum in recatum---->My Will had then, in some Degree, exhausted itself I, remained Suspect in my Subtle Dominations to cramp the incessant Love & the motivating Force which was a [re]humanizing this Entire Field or, The Life of Action was an Action to Ultimately Destroy integrated Structures---->& behind this Confusion, I arrived at my Picture of Man---->The Prey & Redirection of the Daily—[I]—Face—[ed] The Grace of Glob, feeling this Heart, is the Protest of The Heart] ------------------------------------->Thus in this Duration, I Fall to Confess a Personal Aversion to the Space retoothed for The Black Bird singing from The Pulpit of it’s Own Wake &---->& mymymy how our resultant Grin does Form, My Little Icelight.
