Thursday, August 29, 2013

And-Wouldn't-You-Know: I Was Just Beginning to Feel Aroused


abarberisthemostsavoryangeltothepsyche




The Prefix of this City rots on the (pre-) anal that I Wed: Before you Read this, Before your Absence only Becomes a Backdrop, I Want you to Kiss Me. I am Writing some sort of coo, as this is Stumbling towards the Finality of a Stroke: a Sound that is Retinaled from the Ear into Solitude.  A Barber, as Izsus said, is the most Savory Angel to the Psyche.  I Have Hung my Wet Clothes up, and Succumbed to the Domestic link to Glory. This is the pits, is the Least of the Disappointments that I Heard. “But you See-Them Tits on Page 49, Ah, Flip to the Other Side…” A Disaster Within or Withsome Accrues in a City as the Romancing Shock of the Conclusive end to the Body, where this Rapture surely Congregates with the Speed of One Man Skedaddling out the fucking Door, out the fucking White Pages.  With a Mouthful of Cereal, I Reiterate that I am in the Midst of some Serious Writing. I Have Heard and Returned to this Horror a Thousand Erect Times. You can Ob— || as I Literates a Time for a Lisp that Careens over the Commandeering Clap of a Command.  And Peeling-Back this little Day-Dream for a Seasoned Heart and the other Lilt Complaints that Populate this mouf.  in other words: At Least, I Factored-Off into a State of Chicago Broken-Off from the Rest of this Rubed World.  The Fact that I have Enemies, does Not Mean that I have Allies.  It is Rather Funny, how in Youth, we Confide in the City, to Begin to Wonder Why.  She tells me: this Present has a Sub-Present that Presides Over Desire.  And-Wouldn’t-You-Know: I was Just Beginning to Feel Aroused.  And I Keep Telling Myself, that I am Alive, only through this Consistent Motion, this Consistent Wild-Eyed-Desire to Hit the Allusive Rock.  I Guarantee this Sentence shall Arrive just as, as is.  I Accumulate your Absences into this Room, so that in Time, they Shall-Grow so Large, that it Builds a Bridge that Runs Right-Through you, but Never-Into you.  And so it Goes, And as it Goes it Sows. And I tell Her every Night: I have just one more Errand to Run, and then I Swear, that I Will Lie next to you, for the Remainder of this Night. Calm and Perhaps.




Thursday, August 22, 2013

Well, Ma Always Said, Things like This Would Happen (Such Magnificent Sunshine)

and all day such magnificent sunshine



 “Do anything, but let it produce Desire. Do anything, but see Fit that this Production of Desire Yields the Great Capanna Calamity.”

 - Boris Izsus in a Letter to A.F.C II

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The Thing Now: is to Dream, of what, will Crush the Present.  I am Still Speaking of the Pigeon’s coo, for it, as I, Must have Existed. IF I Fail to Create a Specific Content, in this Context, then I Must have been Aware, of an Insurmountable Boundary.  in other words: What is Desirable, makes this Distance Distant.  And All Day: such Magnificent Sunshine.  History is to the Inadequacy to what I Felt (is) to.  Let Me Show You: the Proper Way to Plunge into a Slapstick Rage.  The Suppleness of your Thigh below your Skirt’s Hem.  The Letter Began: My Dear Georgette: the Way I See it, this just Reports the Beginning thrumble of my Vice.  I am Always Astonished by what of this Meat Cannot be Soldered and soup.  A Gun-Downed Body Transfigured into a Quasi-Toponomy of ‘Being Engaged’ in a Silly Horse-Play.  And Years later, Legislatively, The Body doos this.  One thing, I Know, I Will Not soon Forget, is reading Henry Miller Describe Attaining Pleasure, and how this Pleasure, upon his Seizing-Upon, was, and Always had been, Insufficient.  The Rhythmic Movement of this, is What you are Now thinking.  There are no Words to Describe: “This just isn’t Enough.” As IF, I could Even Show you, what it is, I am Wearing.  And She is Sitting Across from Me, Giving that Meat-Counter Glare.  Sometimes the Face just Begs to Hit the Wall that’ll Hit Right-Back. And I Kept thinking throughout this Day: Motherfucker, now that, be some Magnificent, fucking, Sunshine.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

I AM THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ONE GRIEVING (Because We May, We May Remain)


i am the gift that keeps one grieving




I am Wanting to Say: “The Sounds of this Pigeon’s coo is Synonymous with the Symphonic Tusk of Bach, the Break, its Neck” is Rather Equivalent, to my General Refusal, to Mix Calm, with the Steady Drill of an Anxious Life; Nothing of this Persuades that there is still some Morsel left of ‘the perfect world’ And there is, even Apropos to this City, Rehearsing in its Daily Interruptions.  in other words: The City as Pure (-ily) Rising the Primordial, and as a Representation, my Aggression, Swings: But Again, Instead.  Last Night, She Whispered to Me: “I Hope Tomorrow, Begins, as Precious as an Impressionistic Background.”  But Listen: Because We May, we May Remain.  And to Say this, is to Say this, in the Closure of an Objection.   But Baby: the Colon Weighs Heavy on What is to be Subjected up/on the Body.  Likewise: The Act of the Panic and the Ensuing Fainting is My Ability to look fucking Nonchalant among the Sleep-Encrusted yawls on the EL.   in other words: I am the Gift that Keeps One Grieving. And Here, I Interject: a Beautiful Woman Situated on the Stare of the Dance floor; the Syntax of Ellipses and the Glare of a Disinterested Glance. The Good-God glace in Her Lips. The Preposterous Umlaut of Desire that Might Displace the Fact, that I do not look at Anyone, and Avoid Everyone. However: When I think of you, I think of doorbells.





Monday, August 19, 2013

Suppose That I Couldn't Be More Pleased


i weigh a wed nor toward





A Pigeon coo is Forming into an Eloping Beat all over the City: a fucking Beast of zero: a Palm, a Gap, to Engulf, this Threft. Something Slips, most Possibly, my Desire, which Shifts, Amongst the Sigh, in a Line, of the Question: ‘Who Gots that Ass?’ Oh, it is But-I, Rumbling towards in a Motional Sound akin to Brambling-about the Question, which is Ass. That this has Dove into a Question of a Pigeon, Insensibly Past, without Ass, Save by a Promise of Disaster, or the Disastrous Absence I Might have Become.  That I Approach this EL, each Morning, Unless Death Becomeths the Solution, I Emerge, to zero-in and on some days. I am on the EL, as Such, Irredeemably Calm and “Baby, I Be Unseen.” And Here, I am thinking, Happily, of that Mancini-Kim Fight, which of course, went Awry: a Face, a Fist, a Head, a roar and the Manic, Determined Movement of the Body which Succeeds a Death that Makes, a Fold, in the Crowd, into the gasp and the gasp nevertheless Beautifully Embodies, the Movement, the Death, the Head, a Fist, a Face and the Mother.  ‘Mãe, Minhas Bolas Azuis.’ That your Absence, Becomes an Excuse Emanating from the Lips: an Oprening.ß--------------------------àAnyhoo: What we Seek, is a Joy Worth Mourning.  And this is a Sorrow that Proves, that nothing is every ‘paid in full’.  And when I Die, Perhaps, it will be at the Exact Moment, that you Finish this Cadential Cleaning of my Face.