Monday, September 30, 2013

To Desire, as to this Love, is to Dance around a Disaster, as the Shy but Knowing Master.



THERE IS PLENTY THAT IS PRETTY ON PARKER AVE



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To Desire, as to this Love, is to Dance around a Disaster, as the Shy but Knowing Master.  Motherfucker: that Woman IS my Father.  And Yours (to): // is to (be) the // Bloviated Psalm.  Here: there is no way, that I Can Describe the Desirous Nature of my Words and all that Lies even Further Underneath.  Aye: I Would have Knocked that jaw Right-Off, And-If-I-Could, Leapt from the Terrace, and Landed Across, and Into, a new City, that was In-Step with(in) my own Making.  And so it Came to Pass: that even the Seasons Came to Disappoint Before their Arrival.  By the moors the Dreams of Seas-Sang.  Pleasures Throttle Desires as Desires Whittle Pleasure, and there are Truly, only as many Bodies as there are Disasters to Dish-Out.  And both thumped in the Early Autumn by the same Damn Breeze.  A Disaster is an Event that is not Initially recognized as such, and a Body is a Constructed thing in the Mind, that the Mind needn’t Recognize as Such.  in other words: this is a Vanishing Point, just as, this Vanishes (on) the Point.  To Gravitate-Towards, to Love, the Nature of that, that is Unkempt. In-All-Honesty: I am Probably Waiting for you to Spit in my Mouth, as a Stately Rhyme, Blowing-Itself into a Contorted Gymnast.  And This-Is-All-So Tossed-Off and the Anti-Serene, I Mean, the Horror of my Body, at Night, at Rest, Horizontallyin other words: Bring on the Baraga of Fists, the Bombers over Clark, the Slitting-In of the Sun and My Love, this World is but a Growling-Growing (in) of Grief.  For: what is blu Collapses and what is Red-Faced in this Face Mapsises.  For: it is but our Hands that are Cold.  For: Our City Knows-Not but Winter.  For: These Early-Autumn Leaves Might-Be, and but, The-So-So is the Heart so.  And this Deepened in the Ear and Pitched for Days.  And Now: You just Feel like Indulging in some Bubonic Observations, Baby

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Thursday, September 26, 2013

A BLINKING ARRANGMENT OF KISSES AND SWEET PIGEONS


ONE WANTS TO DENY THAT OTHERS HAVE DESIRED WHAT ONE NOW DESIRES



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To Be Honest: all this Damn Obsession with “Desire” really Brings-Me-Down to Being Deceived.  Therefore: I will Construct a Litany of Things that I Cannot Say.  I Have Misspelled My True Feelings and Ransacked our Secrecy.  And This Phrase: I Elect to Ignore.  I Want your Face Plundering-Asunder and Under My Tennis-Elbow Arms.  Ah: But Even Saying that I Will Construct a Litany that Deceives for I Antithesizes the very Notion of Order. You Tell Me that the Only True Conclusion is a Bullet, or upon Reading in the Sun-Times that one’s Childhood Home had been Bulldozed.  But My Girl, Don’t You Know, that This-Means that Tonight’s Chicken-Wings are Free.  And Again: this City can Be only Described Through its very Uncertainty.  And that pocks a Mark over the Historical Record of all my Seductions of Women from San Francisco to Chicago.  in other words: I Come-to-Commit my Body Unto You, as if, to Receive, an Anxious Forgiveness.  For: Every Witness.  For: Every Proposition.  For: Every Judge.  For: I fucking Juridicize the Judge.  The Cross-Seduction of Personality’s Stasis Staff-Infection.  And this Recounts the Times we were Held like Seeds, Embraced, Impaled and Implicated like Mad.  In Fact, this could be About Anything, but there again, on my Pillow, I Find, your Littered and Sweet-Sweet Smell. 


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Wednesday, September 25, 2013

This Was Like The Quiet Line Of An Ever-Widening Lie




I HAVE AN OBSESSION WITH SPEEDING THROUGH THE SHOULDER DURING SUMMER’S GRAVE TRAFFIC JAMS





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My Fear of The Domestic, is Not a Misprint.  So, I Stand on the Toilet and Declare “Sing This…” in other words: Let’s Malpractice the Mouth.  For: It is Not my Business to be About the Social.  For: Living Itself, is a Graphic Stroke of Personal Contraption.  Impulse, Gluttony, Altercations and the Obsession with Speeding through the Shoulder during the Summer’s Grave Traffic-Jams. She Said that I Should Try Something Harder to Mask the Age.  And such Desires are Sewn into the Interruptions that are my Arousing Arousals Against.  The Face is a Moment in Movements and the Time that I Forgot my Position.  And Why-Not, Come till Dawn.  Patience Cannot be Taught; Therefore: Armsy Cannot be Contained.  Everytime that I am on the EL and the Voice Says: “The Next Stop…” I Merely Think: Well, that is Inconceivable.  This was About Saving my Damn Lunch from the Runaway 66 Bus.  The Heavy Tenor of My Mother, Resembles Leather, Ill-Fitting Luggage and My Knees, Ma, they are rawAnd Yet: How Sweet the Length of Time my Morning Shits take.  There is a Repetition in Tracing each Letter in your Notes, that Means to say: “My Dear, but I Too…” And I Arise the Idea of the Asinine in You.  Everytime, I Think, that I am Finally Home, I Contemplate: You are Stalking the Intersection Between Damnation and Mere Merry and Domestic DoodlingRegardless, we still Arise each Morning, Aching-Away from the Bed.  “And I’m So Limp to Lure your Love.”  This is the Chronic Idea that I am a Mid-June Chicago Day, Guised as an Arresting Alliterative Abstract.  What Follows: a Destruction that I Will Entirely Make-Up. in other words: Those Who Believe that they are Warm, are not, in Turn, fucking Romantics


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