—
“flossing”
body, supreme choreography, cursed, war woman theology, like dying in a pool.
—
I
don’t love it, I don’t need it, purely for status—the grind of apes, the status
of lemurs, straight jungle fire
—
the
body flopping, as it touches asphalt, much Mercy, in eyes bleeding thug life.
can’t manage
change, is it weakness, preferred as rugged and gusty?
fury racing, a
ghetto gut, a gangly groove, like mashing down Crenshaw. a funny night, too
much derrière, slanging an Oldsmobile. a bottle of curses, tasting like
cherries, a man must watch himself.
like apostasy, the
sins of Lucifer, such sweet salacious ascension.
too much
thickness, a man “goes stupid,” how in hell doing it bigger?
never to meet “poppy”
— a trained lunatic, like flossing Hoover at 2 a.m. I must love it, despite, no mercy, where
a soul feels leniency builds up.
a woman decorates a
farmstead,
wild ass desecration,
so pavement a man loses exhibition;
ha!
Love needs
flamboyance, as creative ass fantasies, like running felt tremendous.
candescent
essence, snake medicine hives, kinesics on stage.
a dream in
penalty, don’t keep begging, it’s around its excellence! so spoiled so
advantageous, a ruined man brought back to existence. a tour in “daffy,”
excelling as rabbits, laughing—it chalks!
a soul will pause,
touch walls, observe his sanity. such “Laffy Taffy,” such wiggle room, like
dying was invented.
