A stray enters the manor. Fifty to five-hundred thousand volts delivered through a non-caress.
Fire. I will leave the unimportant details out as I affirm my own. I will leave the manor to the test.
The legate against the soft quarantine, the legate finding new ways of letting me down;
Plodding and plotting from Small New Zealand to Switz’; plummeting through
Cookouts, the unchecked tarmac, numismatics, schools, dander vestments, scarcity of the soulless–
I tell you: Emotional unavailability is so three decades ago. It’s the Era of Vulnerability now, young hero.
Let it fill in or you’re letting it be one which is fooling you.
The maniples are simply doing their jobs.
Roller-coaster of fiends and dicks and deletions;
And I’m so delicious, volatile and so into chaos ‘nd remissions;
Dick thick like a Pringles can, and booty bouncing;
Surf-and-turf buncombe; motel perambulator.
Resolutely bourgeoning and bludgeoning sherbet and berets.
The red appreciation is just a-bangin’.
(And I said to my fever, “Dumbzo, don’t put your subs under me!”)
The rechaud heats the puritanical and tyrannical, for you see,
Nolan’s flag has been collecting coins by its foot ever since the champion trees have been felled by and for it. Poetry’s boo. Architecture’s prized dame and dane. Every mind of the city that is to be awakened will be onto the fact that the city would be better off designed after his toenails: the real prize of Eden.
The percentile, the prelates, the
Complicated pleasures being dished around Cuban chicken croquettes and moussaka,
Noux gardens of lavish episcopations while darting around with brown men in Avignon,
And for and from the afternoon, our heroine has forgotten how good it is to win in sin,
Fewer of their investigations and investings bound by the love and wary for the kick on acetylcholine.
Every record of him skips five years or fifty minutes, and around him, the smell of piss
Kisses the early stages of emphysema being obvious even to the magistri militum,
Even to the penniless hall monitor,
Deigned to me the foreign fever labeled SHUN GOKU SATSU;
Sniffing the feral federal with the taste for the artiste;
Machine serum bartended at the end of the hauled systemic;
Goddamn acolyte of Proust,
Coughing up the blood that is blue, so I know that it’s new, and so I know that it’s you.
Turing test the bastard, then, you thermite-eating, time-wasting, trombone-for-a-foot velour.
The Six Million Dollar Man could not even make sense of you even if you were championed
By piping-it perp Peter of Morrone by the hourly bounty.
Shout to me back the clock! SAECULUM OBSCURUM!
“Remember that our fallout was your fault.
Even fake kindness makes the heartless bleed.
Use it in the way you would use a scalpel.
Decorate with it your house for your mydriasis.”
The house has a fever. I could feel it like
Hang gliders hatching quotients, ruptured advances and severances
Marched ’round the street that is the third. Go carve a damn bird.
My ruling, my tooling, my fooling around, they are final.
“Remember that our fallout was your fault.”
Post-Muse, I have been ’round the world, and ’round the world is my room that is blue on a side.
Hue– Around the world is my palm. And the house is calm, and it is time.
It’s to retire the overused quotes.
Let me hang onto the prosody, the least photophobic of my coats.
…Wrought, I feel responsible. And I feel bad. Wedge salads and fobs and levity learned;
Remembering the night where you screamed from the balcony, “ARRIVEDERCI!”;
Frosted and charitably rounder with my very much verified Lamentations, the art-house’s–
Art-fortress’s– cushionings; naked, like a devil baby.
He is one wayward soul. Believe me, he could not tell you the difference between Greece, Italy, and France, and Philippines.
Believe me, O’ spawn o’ sentro Santo Francis de Sales, he will bleed every Inch of your wayward books in advance. Deuterono-CATACLYSMO!