Rise fall imagine. Rubs the wrong way. The same satisfactions need the same needs (read:needing more.) Lift this leg, turning left. Lift the other one. Lift them both and twirl in opposite directions and rest. Consider yourself what seemed in preparation and ended up in a kind of sorting and sifting motion. Consider the fuse. Raise your eyes to the level of the horizon and leave them blank. Ten looks better than seven anyway. She’s all out of monkey, the poor wretch. Pity her, please. Jealous? She eats important dinners and dances repeatedly behind closed doors for men who shower her with silence. She comes up empty. not purged. These touching communicationsmount some moving ascended again. Go for the long stretches. Practice makes performance moot. The sheer blank gone from the mind.
Raise right arm, left again, drop arm in keeping with your function. It’s building itself. Because the hundreds inherited himself. Because the foregone conclusion is flight. Drop to the floor, you bastard, you sniveling udderwipe. That’s what they call ambition.
Deep down, we’re fond of one another, enough to say the nice things on the nice enough days. Here, now, I’m still here now here ‘til forever goes black. I never understand anymore how it ended unhappily happy. The way with our other; presume the light. Fanning the distraction without halting, the feathers fly faster when you fly. Yes, it will be alright, ceased. The can and shoulders in winter. Nothing else before the end, anything. Under the bed this aroma strengthens and then stagnates. Drizzle on the arms when the storm’s a-brewin’. Covered and couldn’t have to do that, the same sentences that directions from afar. Did I try everything unquestionably fair? All the wrongs waiting?
These wings tire like personality. Complete with above all the restless imaginary matter and at least hope. It wonders the everlasting stop. How you sustain your habits and are happy for that stupid stability. Forgiveness parks, always spoiled with litter and the homeless. Anything up to the point where everything can be bought. Raise your right hand. Breathe alone and murmur. Fall away, frightened. In the dark and kissed and licked and grounded. Surprised by light, still tender. The nicest thing is having enough coffee before going. The square foot multiple. Image of discouragement, hollow yet comfortable, and as always full. Right, lightly, never stood. Nouns meant to mean nourishment and somehow not succeeding. With spirits low, the itself is confused.
Doomed for take-off, it stutters, breaks into song, sideways along the long, long forced forced field of corrupt corn economic malaise. I don’t like flying and consume pills and booze to break the fall. The part of together I delusion and cannot say. Rise fall imagine The hamlets slip. Up the wall sounds silly of silence. The opposite of ends and far from friends. In no danger and fortunate for it. Quickly put together, and how it rusts so later. Something paste by sometimes barely noticed. The sedentary body by face and ladder. Tempted by its temporary. It’s simple:there’s a motor. The new fortunes and limits of distress. I harbor no ill will towards the sky, by its rejection of me, personally, but hold issue with its sometimes wavering when I want something stable. The further ejected by harmony, a ghost. The bodies sweating, the greys, the nights. Initial level less long. The crash comes later. Raise the right vault and vomit. Straighten the trusses underneath, but oh don’t loosen the simple slacks.Flying doesn’t need words. The bundled, exposed to view. Raise the whatever you want, it won’t make the difference you intend it to make, but you will be better for it. It is so clear, over here, before you forget. Absurd at how all the times we could have made it work. The light lighter than these wings. That’s why we take pictures instead of flying, free, for instance. These pictures are weighted to the ground, the memory of us, the solid reminder of the things we did and didn’t do. It’s the same, so start then. It doesn’t matter much in the closed place. These are all so unsuitably framed. Faint sweet relief against the wall. They say they’re gone, sightings uttering the reasons for wanting wanting. The dead which say no difficulty there, dreaming. And they said, the rays of the sun, the material things. The take off trespasses the possible. We’re not there yet.
By Judith O. (Lexington, KY) - See all my reviews (REAL NAME)
This review is from: Kenneth Cole New York Men’s KC1395-NY Classic Watch (Watch)
I ordered this Kenneth Cole watch for my son for Christmas and had it sent direct to his wife for wrapping. I know it arrived on time and not having heard otherwise, I’m sure it works well.
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ii.
What do you tell your mother?
Do you tell her you did it on purpose? Do you smile at the sound of her voice, when and where you do hear it, and tell her she is beautiful? Do you tell her that her neck has seen better days and that you know a few places that can fix it. Do you call her by her name? Do you call her a bitch? Do you call her?
Do you ever wonder why she only rarely calls you and only in an emergency or with bad news?
Do you tell her what you ate last night, and the size, shape and consistency of your bowel movements the following morning?
Do you tell her about the time that you spent 3 days in an empty bar getting high with the bartenders and then lied to your boss later so as not to get fired? Do you tell her what kind of dog you wished you had had growing up? Do you tell her jokes?
Do you tell her that you yourself are not a coward and that there’s a lot that you are doing right now and please shut up? Do you tell her that you regret that she had to spend so many years sleeping in your bed with you because you couldn’t sleep otherwise? Do you tell her thank you?
Do you tell her about the time that grandpa ate all your vegetables when she wasn’t looking so that you could get ice cream later? Do you tell her the lies that form like surgical tubing? Do you tell her when you are healthy? When you are sick?
Do you tell her that you are surprised that she and dad are still together? Do you ask her if it’s because they are hardly ever together? Do you tell her to eat the either/or sandwich? Do you tell her bumper stickers are for pussies?
Do you tell her she’s a horrible driver?
Do you tell her about the tremors, the fevers, the nights awake and sweating? Do you tell her the dreams you had about how you were wandering the yard with a gun and a list of names? Do you tell her about the colors you cannot see, and ask her later if one of them is her favorite? Do you tell her she’s grandeur but sliding?
Do you tell her what it’s like to smell yourself in the morning?
Do you tell her about the dicks you sucked for drugs and the phone book? Do you tell her about the need to experience everything? Do you tell her about the kindergarten cutouts and the people without ears?
Do you tell her it’s not the reasons it’s the cause? Do you tell her the difference?
Do you tell her you hate vying for attention? Do you tell her cold?
Do you tell her you wish she aborted your brother, he’s such an asshole?
Do you tell her you were fed as much by her stupidity as her sickliness? Do you tell her she can turn the light off her goddamn self?
Do you tell her about your book of ideas and how none of those ideas will ever come to pass in reality and how even the book itself is just an idea and that’s what conceptual art is, if you have to ask? Do you tell her that’s not true, not really? Do you tell her you wish she kept her secrets to herself in the mornings? Do you tell her she was great at reading aloud, and the books she read were magnificent, and you can’t recall a single thing from those books they were so boring?
Do you tell her you hated the fake nails, always have?
Do you tell her you want to hold her hand when she dies, like she did with her mother?
Do you tell her you get concerned?
Do you tell her how you approached it, slightly adjusted it, and destroyed it?
Do you tell her about your wife and how she doesn’t want any kids because she doesn’t believe she would be a good mother? Do you tell her you agree with that assessment?
Do you tell her you depend on the support of not having support at all?
Do you tell her about the time you ate the whale?
Do you tell her the pain’s in the middle? Do you tell her nothing so much as every stripper you sowed? Do you tell her exactly, in detail, what’s on the screen of your computer as you jerk off, 2 times a day, every other day?
Do you tell her you prefer the earlier, thinner, pictures you have of her?
Do you tell her the holes are very small? Do you tell her there’s nothing left for Peru? Do you tell her about the time you were blown by a drunk kid in the middle of the sidewalk while people passed awkwardly by? Do you tell her you enjoyed it? Do you tell her you were thinking about nothing, nothing alone, at the time?
Do you tell her you piss sitting down?
Do you tell her even in public?
Do you tell her how you thought she caused the earthquake? Do you tell her how nothing she did seemed right, especially the thought she had that you were always wrong? Do you tell her to stop all the slow bullets?
Do you tell her you disapprove of how she performs gender?
Do you tell her you did it all by yourself, that you didn’t need any help, because you’re a big boy now and can handle, perfectly manage on your own and that this is the reason you are able to stand tall, go to sleep at night, and fight with everyone who disagrees with you because you know better than everyone else and are better for it thank you very much?
Do you tell her it’s May, not April, May?
Do you tell her the inside of the arms, the outside of the sex, the forthside of the frankness, the pigeon of the nest, the first time you kissed a girl, in the woods behind the school, knowing that was what you were supposed to do, being excited and indifferent by the thing you were supposed to do? Do you tell her how she told you later she had a crush on dad when she had him in the 3rd grade?
Do you tell her smells, lilacs, stills?
Do you tell her about the time you forgot her maiden name, right when you needed it the most?
Do you tell her how you sometimes wake up with scabs on your back, not knowing from what?
Do you tell her how here, inside the margin, you lost the flower to the high? Do you tell her you memory her into tossed salads by the coast? Do you tell her that no matter how many times she tells you you will never give a slacker an even break?
Do you tell her she knows more than you do?
Do you tell her you have a heart clear of it? Do you tell her your head turns, or are you kidding yourself? Do you tell her there are a number of shoe sizes and yours is nine? Do you tell her there are many reasons to call regret reason and that you continue to control the sways so that she is limited on that list and can sleep well at night?
Do you tell her that you hate that your vagina looks like what you remember hers to look like, from your memory of the times in the showers, now that you’re older?
Do you tell her yes?
Do you tell her the reason why you live so far away is that you cannot stand to be surrounded, in stripes, for so long as more than a few days at a time and you know this and you felt the same way and when you get sick I will be like your sister and be the distant one, it’s true, and there will be a few times I visit but I will be distant and disagree with everyone around me and that will be like what our final moments might be like and we’ll see, we’l see, we’ll see?
Do you tell her to question the things she takes for granted?
Do you tell her, yes, you hate how she repeats the same stories every time you call, yes, you hate how she ignores your own secular private life while constantly encouraging you to engage with her way of being, how, yes, you love her mispronunciation of words and phrases so easily attained by others and how, yes, you want her to spend the money she would give you in the afterlife on you now?
Do you tell her about the heads and drops and toes and the cramping therein?
Do you tell her how you stole 15 twenty dollar bills from her purse when you were sixteen?
Do you tell her that life is habit, repetition, lacking in meaningful meaning?
Do you tell her queer?
Do you tell her like the edge before everywhere how you were caught that way?
Do you tell her you want her to live her life before she was a mother, how that would make you feel better about the things that you put her through by being a mother, how unfair that was, and how you didn’t mean for it to happen that way, but that you’re grateful and sad by the way things end up sometimes, considering?
Do you tell her you hate salmon, actually, and that you’re sorry you told her you liked it in the first place?
Do you tell her but not really?
Do you tell her let’s approach the things you’ve killed in your knowing each other? Do you tell her that she doesn’t have enough strength left to smell? Do you tell her that you’re sorry she doesn’t have enough strength left to smell? Do you tell her doctors recommend better doctors? Do you tell her all of a sudden this adoration is inappropriate, but nice? Do you tell her she has a lot of explaining to do? Do you tell her it’s the past that choses you and it’s the joy that passes you? Do you tell her you think it’s her fault? Do you tell her how hair is what’s real? Do you tell her and then close the door opposite her? Do you tell her bank loans are daring at her age? Do you tell her the song is better suited to the saddle than the place where she normally likes to keep it? Do you tell her it means so much to you? Do you tell her it stinks? Do you tell her there’s a bunch of grandchildren she never had, hidden in dried out socks and T-shirts? Do you tell her you wish she showed you how to use a tampon, even if abstractly? Do you tell her about the plain pain laid out like butter on toast that you call condition? Do you tell her she could be jelly? Do you tell her the horrible assumption spoken at midnight? Do you tell her anything true or trust of tied to your tethers? Do you tell her you’ve fallen and can’t get up, as a joke, even when it’s not a joke? Do you tell her her lullabies were always off key? Do you tell her you remember no mention of fable? Do you tell her how you liked how she pretended to enjoy your nonsense soup, even when she couldn’t swallow it? Do you tell her he probably didn’t want to go again to that part of the place? Do you tell her how you sometimes can see her feathers fly in the distance, and how you are sorry they could not take her where she wanted to go? Do you tell her that there are so many things that you just realized about as to make it seem stupid? Do you tell her how much it hurt when she slapped you, both times, that you can’t forget the feeling even as you try?Do you tell her she was right?
Do you tell her but not really?
Do you tell her that you’re worried there’s not enough time left between the two of you and that there’s so much else you want to tell her but you don’t want to take up all that time with talking and how you’d rather sit and drink champagne and smell her smiles until the humidity lowers, the sun sets, and it’s time to go to bed even if you’re not tired you’re so tired?
Do you tell her yes, thank you, the watch works fine?
“The 29th Year of theVoyage, saw me, Growing Despondent” – Boris Izsus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Volume of this Sky↑ reveals its relationship with Terror. & the Weather has caught me, friable in these Month’s penetrations. Today, the Sun rose a few meters it seemed from where it Descended last night. Hmmmmm. What happens, if I were to Open my Eyes, at the moment slippingaway? Today: is a measuring of Antagonistic useless Units. Filing the anti-phlox. In one hand, I have the whole World it seems. In the other, a piece of Meat, my Cock, or is that Soap, malleable?
Howling------->we’re all fucking Howling these Days, melting our Bodies along the Banks of Snō.
Or that little Finger in my Mouth: my poor fractured little Bone. The Fuss of History. The nature of its very Structure, suggests it should just be Beamed in the Head. A little Brush-Off, my Plate. But where, where is it that I am to lay my Head?
Aye ai ai.
Yes, Aye ai ai, is a fitting form to cloak: I’m having trouble breathing these Days. Thus, how can I stretch myself so-------->so that I’ll be more becoming to you in my Wheezing Hobo-Pronunciation? This Question allows me to Assert, that there is something that Implies, a totalizing Distinction between myself & the Exterior World. Between language & my inherent Growrel.
At least the Lack is Consistent
~~~~~~~~~
With the Breath Concern, the Limp Disappears.
It’s a Distance of Spacing, or moving Oneself moved a moving myself to be Destroyed in Beating the Breath, down. Simply, I’m announcing, nevertheless Dying, I want to remember Violently the End of my Memory upon each Season smears across the Cheeks & everything moves close to my Breast------>& it really does, but agitated, I want to unpreserve each Stuck Moment--->detonate each Passive Presence that presents itself in--------->bitchslap’it to the Side, I--->I’m Desiring greater than
this / this
Which signals the Tightening of Circulation, the dilapidated Pupils, the Lungs swell that Manifest Tenderly as if to Explode in Shower of Petals. Fucking PissAnts. I touch just so, so to oppose this momentary Absence of Breath, braiding me in a Trope or, Everything that has been said, Boils down to This:
We were brought here to Dig down beneath that Bitch of the Life bitched down like a little Bitch over there.
~~~~~~~~~
Or maybe it all comes down to---->The necessity to “anti-writing” or “anti-tracing” but above all towards an “anti-mapping” because my dear there are no Coordinates to prepare for the “Anti-Breath”------->the White Crow’ll detonate the Black Birds’ll denote
“Nothing after this, Comes so / here I Comes”
Or, one will say “Fair Enough, alright------->I’ve had Enough”
Which is a Sissy Myth.
~~~~~~~~~
Now pivot around this Concept
~~~~~~~~~
Thereby, whose Time comes, shelling out the Incredible Nature of-------->Sings the Possessed on I’m Faced------>the Shadow disintegrates along my Breathing [Subject] which would [Activate a] Movement----->Movement, such a Word, confuses me------>Leaves Open--------->for Detour-------->I, temporizing the Chestsqueeze in Delay--------->a Movement opposed--------->well, on the Next movement I, in Breath---------->I lay.
~~~~~~~~~
The beauty of the stugglingbreath, is a Subject backed down, to only it’s own desiring------->an inscribing of it’s own Breathing which would be the anti—strugglingtobreathe but before I can finish this Train I am / are Speeched:
“I’m Outtsa Here”
Thus, a Closure of Opposition, to accuse an Operation whose Basis--->consists of the breathease-->places me at------>stake I, the effect to Force, forces me into this continual unfolding of a Repetitious Return----->To Breathe--------->is at Stake-->as a Detour----------->breathing upon a Steroidal Reserve------->the moment I open within Pleasure, is simple------->to Pleasure an aiming back at Pleasure pleasuring the fact that
We is / are Pleasured is
a Pleasure this / has been a Pleasure
& that is evidently fucking Evident
~~~~~~~~~
The very project of Breathing constrained into a Construction of Writing------>this Simple Movement, in which I lose, a certain detail of the Present, remains hidden beneath this Tensed Facial Guise----->as if, to be “myself” somewhere full of concerns this Tracing Discourse of the Structure of Catching-up-with-Breathing, in Delay, this limit makes me Tremble Entirely------>I shall Muffle the Mouf so as to proceed slowly, so as to Disappear the Sign of the Sign upon the Sign deciphering without Voice I sign-------->a Distribution of Persistence enmeshed to Nerve
~~~~~~~~~
Thus, even if, this Breath seeks to pass beyond me------->an infraction of / in Silence would result in an Infiltration--->of the Steroidal Reserve------>a “Mute Breather” or, play thus---------------->
----------->What I will Propose here------>The Totality of this Field above, in my Mouth, towards a Development of a Roving Responsibly. To inhale a Consumption of it All. An Eye calculating the Expanse without End--------->in the End------------------>well, it all fucking Ends doesn’t it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Doesn’t it?
Or rather, to let Impose, upon me, the interlacing Dominant Line to Tie, through the Years, I came to be a Roving Question------>a “Munching Mark”------>The Great Gaspy, Tombed in Effect------->I just cannot let you in---------àwas about my Condition-------->troubles my attempt to hold you in Front of Me.------->Attempts at Squaring the Eyes produced, within themselves, White Flashes in the Vision-------->examining their own, Structure Operates as Such------->Vanishing I’m into Sight--------->a Dubious Dipshit------->But from this Point of View: I’m hanging in a Strange Space, attempting an incredibly Inhale---->presented as such------->resieving myself as a Hole-------->in Expository Disappearance we Go.
I await to reventilate my Lungs—as I too await to document this coming Flood
