"I Don't See the Issue, Sir. It's Simple: You Just Turn to Face & go After that Motherfucker with a Vengeance without looking to the Back" - Boris Izsus
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The Body, on Home, Pounds out an Echo of its Self, prejudicing out a Bulled Reflection---->Thus Home thus & Age as thō, a Rotten Form of Candy, backwashed the Body to the Back of the Stage, stacked---->in which you Lost Thee in the Street, in which you attempt to rectify this Drizzle of the Self in the Morning---->but it is in which Thee that you are Shaggy, in which Thee that you are a Dog, in which Thee that you are Damaging & in which Thee you are so surely Damned & in which Thee you are My Little Dum-Dum---->which is the Tissue at Heart: the Smear, Hook & Fingertips Dirty with all your Senses now Gone, were never so much Hailed, were never so much Adorned, when in their Balance—[ing] the Body now against the Vision of a Casket of these non-sequiturs which Burden or, Please me here in my Socks in the Waste of Adolescence when it still Hurt to be Laid, when it still Hurt to be Facing a Percentage of the Hand that repeatedly Bled off the Food---->& you remember that you were once Blessed in some cuckold Rendition of the Family Faith, which was a Habit, Hermitting the Mind in the Redistributions of the Seats along your Bloodline’s real pew---->which Fumbled Across the Eyes which were then Plucked from the Socketlock. But now, here you Stand in some Mama’s Echo, Accentuating the Scale of Breath, breathing in some Distant Hollow—[ing] thud or, The Glass Skin, Grassed up/in this Tiny Sloming you on Home, Gassed---->Yes, most likely I’m right, Over There, sledding over the Rats which Feast along the Streets where I Rove, fluctuating now, this Night seems so Endless & yet they never are & never were Endless this Life is to be my Sillysilly End---->& look now across The Field in that Alley up & Above to the Cracked the Window Opens to the Burbling Light which is my lifelusting, which is mine Fucking Alone, in a Tone of Spasming what is Thought secretly within these Walls, which is a Shifting Logic upon whom we have told & yet as is, as was & is to be a wassing is was---->was all fucking Destroyed what was, what is & isis Produced in the Trauma of these Hands---->Thus in Time, such a Sour Customer I’ve become, ironing out the Poorest Stench of you & the Dung moving in the Mouth to Pucker Up close to this One Felt, felt the Remaining Absent from the Room, that we Gather from the Extra Notch in the Belt & The Bitch of a Sentimental Yell, yammering on in Cases of Dividing our Bodies at the Waste struggling to Erupt out the Dead which would Ruin my Pretty Little Lashes, would Ruin my Piety stationed at the Time of our Falls in Sleep would Ruin The Great Collapse of the Congested Clowns—[ing] burning at the Ribs spared from The Ruination of Paralyzing The Lonely who run because they’ve never known a Hidden Moment to the Self or,---->The Lonely whose Yellow-Bellies, would Ruin & maintain the Heavy Sanction under the Feet, Fucked & there go the Sad Lovers climbing upon the iceice, which Slips with each Step with each, Baby we’re almost there, like The Cinema Pairs the Final Powdering Last this, exclusion is a Wintery form of a Bastard who Giveth & Taketh away---->In which, I observed my little one absent, in mind scrutinized by the Wav[err]ing Crowds & in this rearing View, I Roared, roaming to attempt to seethe an anything out, in the Bush of the Sung, or whether that Flock of Black Birds above my Head formed of Wood & Blood would Trust me the Distance, on Home---->Which Faces: Them Now—[us] Holding ‘em Down, at Night touching Heads & now off with The Head, Sums up this Joke just Fine—[ily] crashing the Snickering Some to Pound the sum to the Pummel the some of Palavering or, perhaps it is The Meat that Shakes us down from our Tiny Core to the more systematic collapsing gnash of sight---->in which we Crash in/upon the great biting bitch of life transforming The Temptations to a Building the Beginning of the Gruel to Soldiering the Mistakes in/on in, like the Tasty Steak we surely Crammed in to Lull our Little One now in Sin raging in the Echo of a Genetic Index—[es] how Lanky we had Become in the Coming Months & the Jug of Fog that Swelled in our Hearts, Sweltering in a Private we Box---->& how now: you thought to Drown it all Out along with The Corpse, Shuddering in the Balcony---->But all you care to think about now, is the Terrifying Fact of the Rumbling Bodies of a Thousand that are gaining on, your on Home, Door---->which sounds like a Dire Song, which sounds a lot like:
La-La-La—La-La—La
