It could very well be the 'black dog' Gulietta Guicciardi, or the prophecy I owed myself. My right cheek is turning back. Pauses, hiatus. What else can be said about all this seating down in the face of such disonance, as it is witnessed by all? Carpeted floors, minute, blind spaces. I exhale anally holding on to the privacy the tobacco offers. Then again here you are, misspelling the pain.
Using the same vocabulary over and over and over.
A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)
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2 comments:
don't you just love it when they mispell you, don't you just love it when it's done over and over..
just makes you wonder if it's worth trying all over again
it is beyond wonder.
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