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The Description of your Body, shall be my Fist, which Opens, which reveals a Pigeon, untouched. & I say chomp. The better point, of Construction. A hole embedded in the Heart, firm, from overhead. But The Body was, was a body underhead—[ing] a different break in this/is a fatal interruption: Expansion as the symptom of a Famine, across The Surface of these moral irregularities. Another Sweaty Summer Vaginal Day—[?] Chicago, my Dear, I’m going to Facefuck you One Day. But Tonight: a Factory of concepts Our universal Decay, I say “these/is faces” an attempt to unify a perspective of youyou will be a dreaming of Excess dreaming in your Repetition, repetitious in Excess. Thus, Tickle me all the same in the hum of my weakest moments, as if the Photograph of us together will not lift from the Eyes, as if the sifting of this Reflection is an image of a Narrow Tunnel, my little tumtum in the Dirt, as if the Struggle to emerge was never so much a Question of Space, never so much a giving a damn, as really just the thought of this Point that reduces upon the point of The Body exists upon a single thread, a simple stuttering & in the clearing of------------------>The Emerge me/is/this Sign------------------>we eat the face that Beautiful little was, was ever was a Beautiful Bruising was & then the gaggle of feeding pigeons/is or, of Parched lips/is the Consumption of Mouths that await each Night. At night, on the Balcony, I listen to the Woman, across the Way, talking on the Phone with the Windows open & as I Fall, The EL comes roaring me back to Life & I like it that Way & I see in that Way, with her Voice momentarily Drowned from the Sound on Down, that sometimes Things aren’t so Pretty, sometimes Things really are just what they are, which is Sad which is Sad. Sadly, the rest of this deals with the motion of Men Drowning described as a looking out/in, into the Distance, to see a Body that views this Struggle with the Heart, hears “this makes me so Happy.” Happily, on Top of the Head: my Blunt arms, Arms: You avoid the Decay of just One, as being Tormented is really a Foolish Fad. Thus, to Enter, to the Point where there will be all the more/more, does not necessarily mean you’ll Rummage through, to the Object of which you perhaps, would Desire. When I press my Face closer against the Glass, you’ll See how my Sweat, Floods. Folding the Familiar Forms disclosed & then Erased. The Dichotomy was Pronounced: I’m Fucking Hard, but what else is new—[?] what other Bullshit could seep further into This Body—[?] I’d wipe away all The Bullshit surrounding me but the Paper’s running thin & I’m sick of my Hands in the Shit. Thus to learn the art of being Frugal but then awakening one day & sadly looking from Side to Side with the sheets still tucked, wondering why all The Excess is turned off. What more can I say—[?] I said, right—[?] I had searched for a New Form of The Body, one that’d resemble a Fist but when I opened my Hand eh, it was still just the same Little Bitch, still Shitting upon everything like a pigeon/shitting upon everything without regard, without the slightest Term on the Tongue for Personal space/is thus, like a Hugging from your ex/is more resembling of a Bruise but it all Bruises, bruises like a kind of Despicable Mute it, was the Butthole of Summer & The Dirty Man & the Vacant Lot & I remember my own escape, flapping my Wings happily ever, to whatever I’m after
