Very dissatisfied and agitated. The subject hovers
over every
inversion of herself in dingbats that saturate no
pages of gaps
in passion aloof from frozen tradition. The subject
rejects
compassion as a pause in mechanical reproduction
procedure. What
is the protocol for this? She asks. And this? Let me
sit on you
while the television goes dark.
I aggravate gravity. Very dissatisfied and
agitated, I
implore you to listen for once as I squeeze out
another
otherwise. It's hot here, hotter than your innermost
massacres.
Slowly, she begins to understand that what she wants
is an
anonymity even this dissociated language cannot
provide.
Accordingly, they cleave the season. Ribbons of the
fruit's blood
stumble down my lips. She pretends to drown in the
syllabic lake;
in fact, empathy thins to sapphic precision. I honed
the word
down to bonegrit and saliva dust. I'm a lousy writer,
the subject
reveals, verging on another post-psychoanalytic
breakthrough.
I pretty much had to read all my chapters. The
past tense
whispers my life in solid blocks of silence all over
and done
with without thought. Eating the corpse of hypertext
in the cave
of vacations, he ever so ossified porous rondeaux
flying ill-
fated between one party and the next. I'm all alone
here except
for you, and there are no modifiers to mediate our
diameter by
formulae. Where's the blueprint? The subject requests.
Here,
another otherwise moreover in their collective works.
Someday I
suppose you'll want to know what the pronouns index.
Ha! Brazen
flowering trees burn pinprick icicles into my
empirical
hypothesis.


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