If I played with my ears, I bet I could reach further.
Look behind you.
Waiting for a breach: Tan if washed. Been awhile since the black trolleys came through with guards.
And under what circumstances may HE become a part of the train?
Mary?
Mary?
Again: Roaming. A perpetual coastal glaze. Very hard to say.
Very hard to say.
Seems to be a different rhythm, boys. Slide up a scale. NO MUSIC—
Within the fur of the lit hand I will see the five I've pinpointed and am doomed to repeat. The strike numbers. I will see the cosmology. There are morphing stars around us, even sinking stars. A whole sky shorn in a casket and all its metals still show at you; you can see if you look close enough. It's like the grain in a photograph—
Dust?
Is a concern, yes.
The only affirmative. Make note of that; strike the records. Renege.
If you want to see outside this racket: Intimate scenes. Just see them. See them now, because you'll never see my lips on my knees again.
Once made unsure, now: Holy.
Divine growing laterally. As such I am under.
Could he return to the concern of the—
We may have to part amicably; we may have to shelf it; we may have to put it in its case; we may have to take it down, unframe it; we may have to crack it with a pin hammer and shuffle the rubble; we may have to undo the ties of the lines of instruments; we may have to dismiss the dancers; we may have to crack the disc; we may have to unplug; we may have to take off the hat, strip authority; we may have to step outside; we may have to corrupt; we may have to go outside and lose any vivid motion; we may have to take the pleasure out of the prostitution again; we may have to; we may have to refrain from talking above room tone; we may have to express ourselves only in commodity, trading posts, and sunsets avoided because the men and women, all of us, stay inside with the windows blacked.
Screed. An uneasy union between us; yes I know. Why do you think I put flowers in your hands every time we meet? You are so pretty.
Foreign tongues — well, unseen. That's what is left on you, not in smell but — there are scratches that I trace, palms cupped and suctioning out another's sweat — siphoning the past hands out of you. Again: Can't you do this on your own? Can't you do this with just one? Or another?
Again, emotive flux. Like a belly roll. An amusement, but not much outside amusement, like a slow growing tumor in a bell jar. Hesitance. Strike the likes. I can't seem to keep track of him, sir. Parsons. King.
And if I was foxhunting—
Could not gain access, so had to cut a path. PLEASE ADVISE. Urgent channels, they swell, you know. Every path has a brain.
Bled throughput. Needing. Teeth come front. Garish. Umpire. Welded cuts and their bubble blend. It's all a ruse: By now if you haven't seen—
Accusations! Hah! Perhaps we should form you a rap sheet, and start to call the items out? This is the danger in me.
I am sick and bored and want it back, the door. The hand, dark or not. I couldn't care. But the lack of everything, candidly, is forming quite a blank. And the testament I give can't hold such a rupture: The unholy blank, a middle, around it another pillow blank. These things, in accordance, are not conducive to electrical strain (me to you) — so let's play:
I'm outpacing you ten to one.
Time for the lover's tale?
Breathing.
The Fifth Difficulty: I prescribed six. You sent me into terror loops. Held a pull of uranium to my right lung.
All in accordance with the law, the law a natural extension of the hand, the hand the natural extension and body of god.
What is holiest: Speed of delivery.
There. I am sank.
There's a space in wrapping this up. But in the bubble that the end creates, there is great urgency. Urgency like a stoked fire, or like that glint of precious metals that drives us (you god) into the earth in many ways. The ore, a stoke. A desire that even in quenching is by definition unquenched. We are born into it. Some are, some are born into a hollow chamber, much nearer to just one. I, due to spent borders, was not. Lines unknowingly employed by bipedal things, unknowingly stripped of their fundamental ambiguity. Their always. So, again: The urgency in waiting to start — FINISH — again means a great cry, a chasm with the top forced down by massive sheets of air and sound, to become a cannon, building by ricochet until burst. The canyons pop. The ears require. Birds come down to visit and salvage. The world shortens. Topped out.
I once had a longer one in me.
We could go back to the room?
Can we?
We could go back to the mocking things: Pen in my right hand, paper in my left.
We could go back to the miserly and weather, the king in exile, the mother room.
We could go back to silence.
Tempting. A sugar that never peaks and never valleys.
We could strip infinitives and talk in tone of body. Like: The wrinkles and slow beating. The crude lungs. The knees, almost broken now.
We could talk about the sense of the room.
The room.
The walls. The door. The windows. The bed. The visiting. The water. The static. The click, routinely.
Abandon: NONE OF THAT THERE—
We could leave.
It's all conversation, now, anyway. You see? Yourself at dinner, nearing the veal. Bringing in leafy greens. Smiling — said smiling. This is one possibility of I'd like to think two possibilities. The other is a non-event. The other is an alway-on button. So, to prevent the dinner:
AH—
There. I don't think—
I don't think I let that through. Maybe—
Bounce. I'll tell you: I'm bleeding and cut all over. Threw myself against the walls again. But. That's no fair. Not fun. I like gyres.
Straight slope of the nose, soft and large eyes, closed, lips that are well defined and finely cut, but lacking pout. Or glean. Cheekbones, soft, smooth, in proportion. A face in ecstasy, but a face out of sex. The safest face, swirling around the statue until it reveals itself as whatever lies under the stone. Inside the stone already, like a crystalline egg. Smooth and carved to defeat facet. What a purpose. I can see the sculptor's hands in a furry. Trace paper, the sketch, the look into the block. Look, the sketch, then stare into the block. A nimble—
Expel.
Spat it on the floor. No would be convenient, visitor. I need the light. Please. I want it for color.
I'm done.
Surface. Pain unlike a brick, but hot — a stove. All the spaces I'm leaving you, if that is what I'm leaving you, could be full of it. Full of pain. I stay plastic, but even I cannot remain neural-neutral. Call me unfashionable.
Breathing.
When the lip's gashed — dry first, then gashed — and the immediate sharp beacon becomes a lighthouse atoll, then you can run it over with your teeth, and the report back is a sigh into discomfort and an invitation into the keenest pleasure. The sharpest play. And this becomes a repeat: Teeth to lip, teeth to lip, teeth to lip. No: Not unlike the flower.