Folks from a gridded compartment have decided
most perfectionism is out of step
while playing as aficionados of the vulgar

to provoke both nature and full disclosure.
Those organized under their strong gesture shall triumph.
Those compartment folk know this and tap
all our communication, born of necessity. Our own dialog reflects
gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.
Oooo we’ve discovered our voice.

Dinner in precision blizzard-words, drifting,
Reversed decisions rotating in cavernous surf like mercurial quanta
Shifting soft, whispered — this could occur. You’ll go in circles digging deep, redressing
The boat’s mortality —
Say when. Pulse, how did we say when?
There’s the written form, a cool word
Clambering, feeling its way...

Filming at midnight — kvelling schtick a transitory nontactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocol looks ‘more than serious.’ Except...
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A sure loser’s term — proceed un-amusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in poems.
You can even do that up in film.
“Stump, don’t ask,” I said — So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

The terms are, go settle down through the evening, finish your addenda
at gunpoint. Perhaps heartbeats get covered by a shroud that frays
and unspools to gain advantage spreading the plan.

Without license, we impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes —
with all the conviction of a third episode —
century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we stay sleep (wavy
fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to bear being
kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me into becoming obliged to rule you out, generously.

Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
We went from one thing to another, not coming back.

Buds to blossoms.

Credo:
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

Staring at trains’ inhabitants at South Station —
Our blankness fills in family trees offside. After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for composing love. We never saw this before.

Burn,
Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into expression muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

To admire oneself, one’s distinction,
There’s a lot more ahead.

Poetry goes thru many drafts.

We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance, manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are nothing less than what we had in mind!) :
Did I mention your heavy eyelids helped us set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere loving supersedes manners and physicality itself, but where there is no privacy. Not now. Started before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, the ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films transcended precise location and presence, running forward and back, and all too near.

Fact: eye contact is mostly on the defensive but our strategies around the eyes are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making to and fro altercations sited within a figure-ground colloquy.
“‘In a way’,” he said, “nothing saved me until ‘we ran the gauntlet —’”

You like it, Sleeve. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s also a slurry kiss inside.

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result.

Where o where did we hide our donor workspace, the top percent of it, and who kept you from living freely?

I can put a prayer this way.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.

You are part of what we hold.

It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it gets more uplifted.

Career update: drinking exercises can save us from scrapping the mission (& face off) — Bacchantes are survivors.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of explosive dumbness to hole up then expose your ethos without cut-off points where ideas muddle on. (Better to become accoutrement for a mouthful of secondary definitions.) All this in anapest.
This is where I lived until I began to write on spec.
I moved frequently to exhume a favorite idea, absence of no desire, not a disease so much as hope in health, loyalty (for sale) — assuming we understand what’s not right from mission creep.

I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling
we live in a debt growing country.
Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse. Blousy
threads & too much sex belong in one pile.
It’s a good look except for soy containers suspended from a branch bow: cowslips
& top limbs drooping synthetic blood over your chest ::

When stairwells mesh & go nowhere either side
between you & your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in artificial druthers.

This one is what then? ‘“One’ more piece of funded solidity.” Solidity, not for those who have no more.

My quandary repeats another wish never fulfilled as you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.

At midnight again Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with a master’s degree in these matters, said the landmass of gut feeling, sane behavior, and noncriminal discourse — like mine — that mass teeters on the grotesque tattoo of a human skull. I can’t turn that down. I can’t mean only my language. It’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. A good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all rescue contains, all I could have told you.

Taking on a dominatrix. Matins.

Sweaty in bed, fountains, aqueducts..
Above the clouds, would you like me to exhibit agitprop cruelty for our audition? Giving up is a gamble, a bet gone bad in your case.. finding my cause I can’t honk loud enough about the importance of deception, glimmers of withheld affection empire states high, taking on a dominatrix.

And leaving you still alive in many forms, all human.

(I’ll end this as a Euro emigrant without you.)

Clay-toned physiques
fighting their relatives, waving, receding on one another

— everybody under an influence indoors, thoughts that are
filled with light, rotating in
reverse as if knowing how to purify their offspring & manage forever
in bionic lurches of nibbling torque .. adjusting ..

You may notice I’m after zest constructing new meanings in your arms, and oomph — one long eyebrow (for wingspan), fuzzy and continuous like our séance now, now in the present that has no update or purpose, just falsetto in your eyes.