Slap & Tickle

This is a strange catastrophe. Ruling the limbs like a dance of half-death only half-so. These lists like lilting sways of means and holdups. The heat of the sphincter-like held. The dream is scrawled in repetition and that tickles me further but not enough to wake up. “I’ll kill that fuck, right after I fuck him!” I awoke, later, slapped with the timbre of morning and a cup of coffee left in the fridge from days ago. I know this emotion and the other instances of sweetness. This is a tremulous sequence, but local practice makes things mean more than they do. The person you yearn to stone. The shapes you build around them, the figures you aspire, not leaving a single whole for them to get out, they’re not getting out, they’re not going away.