thedillpickleseedsofthisshuttered
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And Here is Monday’s Romantic Notion: Digging as an Actual Positional Becoming. The Thing about Anterior Desire: its just fucking Gross. Falling Backwards Through the Face, Fracture,
Facture, I Indenture. i.e. “I Am Soomewhat (in) Matter” I want to Think that I can Practice (in)
this. I want to Feel that I will Waddle and Toil in this. I want to Believe
that I will Fail (in) this. And I am so Desperate to Believe that my Failure
will not be a Means to Surrender, but Rather:
A Releasing of this in Me and in Me: a Releasing-Towards what isn’t, What will Never Be Me . As if it Were Not to this (in) Be. And As I Lay with my Fringes Fried in the
Margins. Desire is the Dupe that makes the Lock Unhinge from
Which Pours in, a Disastrous Time in Anxious Frankness. “Aye, I Hear that December Air Already Raking-In.” And Still: the ruin of Proving IF Ground. This is Eating and Eating and
Preoccupied with its Eating. And to Imbue an Offensive, yet Sweet Vocabulary. But Still I Find: I’m Slightly Light in the Loafers and Weak in the
Proverbial Needs. Actually:
I Meant Knees. After the Body, the Collapse Prevailed
and What Ensued: The Palpitation’s Commission.
And Now, I Will Plan a Litany Constructed with the Loogie of Others. And I Thought to Say:
I am So-Fucking Articulate. And I
Actually Said: All these Words Because I’m Missing your Skin. This Matter, Master, is Negotiable and Thusly: I’m Aroused. In Regards to my Family, there is one Truth:
the Italian Grudge and The Seethe Survives.
For: Our
Lives are so Jam-Packed with Desires,
which by their very Insistence, Appear Endlessly Inevitable. in other words: from the Knees the Face Droops to a Slackening-Dawn. The Pigeon
in Thick Air thumps that puff is my Love (in) there that is Bowing-Down to the Pearl, the Girl, Giving-It-All a Whirl, on Down, the Sweet-Sweet Ground. For Never Forget:
I am the Mine to Mine my Mine to Molest All that IS my Mine.
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