AN IDEA OF ANXIETY’S AUTHORITY UNDER THE OPENING OF THE STORY I AWOKE IN AN OVEN WRAPPED IN A BLANKET OF YOUR HANDSOME SKIN
I will never, ever, forget You. Okay,
I probably will, after a few
years begin to match, awkwardly
walking, in the beginning
of winter, onslaughts every other
human’s knowledge, or the lack
thereof is the Intimacy, craving
to slip past that process
of sitting, across from You, at a Bar
& laughing in November 2010
becomes aged, becomes a mark, pocks
on the Skin, hair-loss, children
& a multitude of prostrate--
problems of future penis
failures amount
only a bit, insofar, as I’m
thinking, at times, okay
not much
longer & I’ll be classified
a Vegetable &
crapping my own
pants, not knowing,
not caring what I ate,
but still believing,
the day will arrive
when the Adoption
Agency will call & inform
the Nurse, that my new
Father, is Mayor
Daley, will no longer
be running (into my arms) after
February 2010 & this
makes me sad for the rest
of
fucking hell this morning
was a torrid Blastoff, as
I recall, this has little to do
with your tears are false
proclivities, running us aground,
as I recall, this is the beginning
of my final talking-points to
the function of Ovaries &
who will survive my Hunger
during Lunch, I am thinking
about You, or rather, really
just your Boobs, would be
framed, so nicely in my
Mouth, to titflick
teeth to
nom-nom is something
like Addiction in my
hands already fucking
aches to think, my Hair
still isn’t Grey as the Sky
in November, today,
is blue. Nothing counts
in the End: I think, maybe,
I loved You. Slightly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
