desire... machine... contin...

in other words they're not namby pamby i feel sorree myself and my life things and art is not making itself better being composed of such slush goo baba clutter.
whata monstrous lingo of schio
analogues and the language of psychosis?
glossolalia the litter of its

not the i, me, my of the mommy daddy
sort of jazz
but the real bad





where waving Archbishops kick you out
of the centre of your dead brothel family
yer dead family body
crossing the spears of
with the sex if not
of Zeitgeist?

she wandered around the end
edge of her flex text __

givin' all
forsaking none

living ball
taking less

is giving less

and not less
is not gi ving at a ll .

'I wan to see your dirtiest filthiest sonnets'

Someone in a book we read in London once eons past said in a

in the past of your sonnet was a hair
history conned the characters of its loom
yer sweet tuck was the riddle of its charm
a house to roll rompers and body
of your lover