The landscape of Inferno has only gotten more beautiful by the day.
Drink! Drink for me, all you debauched souls. Non-committal and slovenly,
I am always looking for something to decipher by the altar of the Great Psychosis.
Pitstop Lover, I have lear’ned of your voluminous heart-kills:
The unreported unverifiables of Puerto Bolivar; your ricochets of ricotta;
The dendrological notes of the world’s augmentors, and propellants;
The banished boy from Tulsa
Looking, staggering, resonating amongst the stagings of your ex’s Ashkenazi hindsight;
Your practice as a Jina… They are all of me now. I have no use for them. I have all the uses for them.
Proper is the void that is there voicing my more non-committal and slovenly concerns.
I break the succeeding ceramics erupting from the love that was once caged.
I am as free as you are free. I smile for all that is inferred.
the selfishness of Prosperio is now gutted along with all the signs of remembrance
of mightily-confused poetry erupting for the 26 year old version of the self; yet I keep the pride;
the younger voice is fading now, along with the traces of the wall ever made so biege, bingeing
sniffs and permits and enactments of passivity and lashing out and wanting condemnation
from the wayward wolves that have fled from us after being so forcefully fed; tropical and topical
traditions of barbicide blips and the signature scripts of the soulful and bodily poverty; shyly,
they are all being dissipated…
…and here, in the memory of the dissipation,
I take the form of the impartial thumps of transference…
and here, I take the abdominal noesis. I take such victory.
Drink! Drink for me and my debauched soul. From the Inferno, I taste and take
Such sweet, sweet, almost-monstrous victory. (The wolves here all cheer with me.)
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