Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Think of no one not even Christ (who will save this meat from its own atrophy?). I call to sleep puddling in the drooled-out phlegm all policies of shriveling women in red dresses waiting-- waiting so patiently for discomforting hands for their exiled cunts to reject them every time a man whispers come.
I will be waiting for the excess of all things & challenge what is deemed unchallengeable what may be revised with censor-marked chicken-scratch on the lattice to draw into air the calligraphic & strike the sun (excerpt the rays) to sever form from flesh the principle of cold nights while naked on a bed dreaming of red dresses (you learn a breath like a dying woman—gasping) I gasp you & will be this enraged fragility of darkness...until I [be]come sniveling Pavlovian-like on the ground, a fanatic.