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"Longing for the Doldrums in the dirtydirty Dawn" - Boris Izsus
The Body pressed to the Pavement in the Steps to Suppress---->I’ll eventually align the Sweeps & Inner Dialogue, between each Empty Foul, from tete-e-tete to nothing at all ---->From the South, the Trains look Queasy in my Eyes & in this Little Skin, I feels like Evening, like I’m Dusking on this Real Press[nin] Operation of the body’s judgment, which I reckon was what the Doctor’s whisper to the Self in Duress which began this Mess---->in which, we are left with this Desert after visualizing Summer each Month & the Edible Few, The Few who could not satisfy the Thought of Eating ourselves Frigid under the Covers in June---->no, it’s that Violent Eddy of the Storm again above our Heads which Towers in the Ear turning in the Bowl our Indiscretion---->which Towers in the Mouth, through the Weight upon my Chest, through the through this Terror: that in the Decades to follow, there shall be no one, no one shall be Here to Answer my Calls---->& Baby, the Wreckage of this Month, the Sun became very Hot & the Streets appeared to Blister & Lift to my Yawl & I could have sworn from my Window in Sweat, through the Blinds in Sweat, I peered a Man in Sweat singing in a Crumbling Room in Sweat, Violently wiping his Forehead with his Child’s Latent Smile in Sweat---->But no, no one wants to Topple the City like this, in which you Swear, is the Good Lot, is the Tender Spasm from Youth, in the Falls of the Alleys, behind which Muscle to this Day to Bushel you over---->Which begins the Falls again, against The Latrine of the Body, framing itself Flushed through the Past, the Bullshit of your Benevolent Years that were formed not by Force, nor The Folding Horizon in the Pocket, but of Bullshit---->& it takes Bullshit to say: Two Naked Bodies provide Delay in the Decayed Belly of a Black Bird grew into the Hellish Bitch of Another---->which explains how sometimes this Life is so Stiff on the Wrong Side of Town in which you dream of Withering the Wrinkling of a Shitstained Laundry which was every Face in which you Passed, which was every Lip you did Lock, which was every Smile you squeezed in your Fist to Dust in those Benevolent Years, which was every Exchange along the Rough-Hewn Features of the Forlorn Storm Swarms in your Tummy do Down---->thus, does a tumbling down do to you do this to you: within the Directions you have kept so close to Jaw & Heart, My Friend there is no Return---->thus this attempt at a Somnambulistic Escape & yet our History is such that we Touch Nose to Nose, at the Edge of the Dried Lake, Blinded & Licking all Directions---->Which is how you learned to become a Man, if only still just a Flyman, pulling your Body past the Burden of Noon dangling upon the Bizarre Slippings of the Woman in June & tell me Ma how we got the Blues Again & this Tightening in the Ears[tight] as always Signals the beginning again of The Fall into our Own Seductive Lives got Played at the Hands of The Little Fucking Playthings---->& that Chin that nestled in my Hair “I Got your Bones” bounds me in a familiar Stench of this Body turning itself onto Itself in which I eventually would give in to the Scream, give in to the Clutterjaw & End as Ashes swung Wide against the Great Field---->in which The Man was now Gathering, fitting his Body into the Graphs of the Pavement just so, so just The Head was severedleft simmering under the Sun, with his One Good Eye upon us All---->& We Shook in this Gaze in which I heard a Great Whimper in which I heard The Clusters of the Past Frozen City crushing underfoot---->in which I heard “I will eventually give in” & scrub the Blood from our Door which buckled My Body back, backed into it’s Proper Place, which was a Bodybore---->which was a Dream & all this fucking Dreaming sutures across The Whole Wide Gape of the City, in every Turn marks a Ghost Map, a Ghost Past where ghostthoughts Shuttle away in the Shuffling, the way Ghost surely do---->Meanwhile I was Puffing again & Wheezing again & Laughing again & fucking again in the Nature of Doubt which had not End, had not a Face, had not a not, in the gathering us Down in the Hold of this Sheet, which Covers our Head & then Our Bodies in a Whole, in a Moss Embrace in a Giggle, in a Thunder, in which we Spoke---->in which we Spoke in Private Chin to Chin, under the Strain of Stairs my Little Little Chin Chin, about the Root of the Problem at Hearts itself to this Heart Mark: Baby, There never was enough fucking Blood on our Hands & how our Eyes did then Close.
