“Sir, one more Word // and imma make you my Bitch: // tattoo my Face // on your Titty” – Boris Izsus
THE HEART TOO UNSTABLE TO DURESS ITSELF
So, The Decomposition carries
*this accrual
actually aches in
*this Body
going downhill as the Memories putter
in your Smile & Slum in one’s Gut
constricts
the thought: “I must be a Ghost”
or at least longing for an aggressive
form of Daily Wonder: bitchslapping
whatever the Fate of *this Body—[
—s] facing One Grim Principle:
“Drag up(on) Life”
with our Hearts being lead away
& looting all those homes of
ex—lovers
to fuck The Head is a Suture
but these days, I’m truly predisposed
to employ myself to fucking getting
more mymymy your Ass was never
so soft
in the Mind, I always fumble with
measurement: my own Flesh was
meant for abduction baffling about
in your Mouth, so bashful so:
what You is // is what You is //
or, isn’t is what You is // is
what You love, is but a fucking Ghost
brings another sad-sack Season a reason
to return to BOOBS do blossom
beneath Spring Snow
treasons Oh’
you fucking know, how Perverse
it is, being born so Handsome
in the grit of this Shit, I’ll pound
you down by the tail-end
of your Echo, underlying myself
upended your Dress: were the
thighs I wantonly adored & shook
in the Frame of Intimacy
was the Structure of Misery
is the Risk of never getting up
so The City is left to serve You:
a Visceral Objectivity
