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"I couldn't tell you the Last Time, my Sleep was Wide Enough to Cross to the Left of my own Face, is an Arrangement to a Stop" - Boris Izsus
The Body in Vegetation, as a Picture this/is Scene, as a Form of which suggests The Dramatized to Personalize Suspense in space/is thus--------------------->against the Entire Bibliography of each Day, the way I sleeves the Fold upon The Horizon says: The Face guillotined from the Mouth up/warns of the path that shall align my Enlargements along your Laughlines where it’s------------------------>hard to Define a Face, when every Definition is Relative, is a bunch of bullshit/is: you are this/is yet what is this/is—[?] what Form, is/this that’ll Bruise a Blue under the slightest Touch & the Work to be done on the 8th Floor from Time to Time, how we all flimp in Defeat or, the Temporal threshold in which/is I disappear in you from Night to night/is-------------->my little nightlight-------------->thus, Bodylight means I falls/in The Meddling Man & peddling up/on lives in a Closed [I—/is] said/is: The Horrible bright Sight, which shells upon the Body & the Hunger that hoods in the Shadows that clamp us/on down from where our little Hands might go-------------->Now, I say embrace me----------------------->up/on The Stomach or, Backed to The Wall, where we can maintain Bodies as steps/up The Takeover the successive migration of Thy Eyes that turn to the Dog, turn to the curating to intimidate the movements of One, all alone, always the Same schlepping along The Edge thus--------------------->The Sad, sadsight with the Sad ways of thinking I’m oh so Sad---------------->which is Simply this Lent of Exertion of the Body pounding of Apportion against, againstheagainst The Times thus------------->The World outside of our Window is gone, so let me carry you, in the Paw or, the Jaw, in the Rattle of our Bones I saw------------->To rise, at the Edge of a Pupil, that is flourishing in the Pang of the Little One’s Body, which was a Plateau, which was Fecal in it’s Disposition------------->& again & again how we find ourselves paused in The Field, our Hand frozen before the bodyhandle, flashing back to Sleep flushing back to when we were Faster, were a more Profound interpretation of how rotten Our Lives are in torment or------->there is nothing Rotten about this Life is/I’m soso Blessed------àIn the Head tearing above the Roof, the drowsiness of that Bitch on our Lips the fumbling combination in which we Plump & then Stem to Self to Ascend along the Pestle little by little my littlelittle One, but-------->the drawing out of Snores decries this/is a Descent, this is the Seasonal change that occurs, that is a curse in my incomprehensible, but how about changing the Maps-------->Directs to Heaven, is no Body, no bodyno buckled from the Bottoms that Parts to The Place opposite of the underside of this/is my Form this/is my church/is that you have passed along the Road broken/is the down/is along the Silhouettes/is & what did they say—[?] yet only now I am confusing this Knocking on the Spine & Back on the Branches snapped back this swaying combustion of the Face smashed against the Return to Subject: I stand here in which completes us/in me is/in you/is, as something more Full/is or,-------->Dreaming of The body/is on ice/is, the dankness of the Landscape lost in the Eye, teaches us of the Utterance to begin “Starting from the End, starting from the End when”-------------->I have been a horrible admirer peering from the Window on the EL, the street below pummels to my Creep, at the Edge of the Gutter the Eyes & mymymy, awakening my neighbors in sweat or, unparalleled how I gulp the entirety of July, which could ultimately be the decimal that Kills me, might cave/in my Mouth as a firm postscript---------àor how about the rest of you pricks who sound/off in the gibbitygrab in the Mouth, traps it in the aftermath all the same, all the way to the Ruination of a good reputation------------------------->For some time, we continue this Sleeping & undoubtedly you are to Blame littleboy you----------------------->for This Time spent tracing your Finger around the Handle of the Door----------------->many were taken in this Study of the Laws of Personal History in which, the Handle forms a Doorway forms, a Room relapsing into a Corridor forms, the Evocation only through actual Sight, the Land[e]scape arising from the Dung or, The Self bending lower & lower until it disappears into a new Character, a new Body, a new Line of Snō, don’t’cha know—[?]----------------->When The Body bares a Barrier disturbed is some kind of Generalized, I Threat----------------->The lengthy shot of the Aperture shot & the Body spread out on the Street, the Chalk etching changing everything, everything as if the cawk consent was the Body in Remorse, balled up on the Kitchen Floor with Eyes dilated: lessons of looking empathetic to save Face on good sensation--------------yet more than anything I search for the Joyous alternative but these Days all I got is Bad Luck, loose change & my infant talk------------>so muchso so Devotion is retaining the Self, to keeps the March of Summer silent to a Standstill so muchso so that The Punishment will surely dry our Eyes out the whether we like it or not for The History of The Personal Laws of the body/is is ever Delinquent in Guilt, or---------->The Body caught in the middle of a Gangbang, gasping for Air, gasping for the Silence of just your own voice/is littleboy you
