… cum in me, it is fun. I will perform it for you. I will expose it in a way you won’t miss it. I will give you

a glimpse into seeing it as I never see myself. The other night

it came all over me in a dream. Pronounced it narrowly done with me. Dichtermut spills forth to join a bathtub filled to the

lip with dead goldfish

Soul fucking. Want any help. Help provided unavailing

Nowhere near as fun as self-fecundation. Noone gives it to me

as hard as I do. My complacency is man’s best friend. I recognize

man as merely a bigger cat. I will eat its face whole when it dozes off. I love my dick, but I take it outta my mouth

once in awhile …

… attempt to wage war on it as if it were a vanquishable object

Scrub hands like a surgeon till skin bleeds. Exfoliate the problem

and there is the problem another layer emphasizing the temporary nature of the problem

Ends up contaminating things

Another layer, so many layers reveal the problem, and, yet

the solution is very simple. I hesitate to say what it is

Instead kissing and licking the buckle of its purse

over and over again

I’m going to spend everyday of the rest of my life

killing it and liking it …

… I pronounce it. Dead. I pronounce myself to it. Stupid. It pronounces itself to me. I am stupid because I am dead. I ask it, what is a good feeling and what believes in reincarnation. I ask it, can you love me harder. I love it so much it kills me, it’s stupid. I love it so much, like a hole in the head. I love it so much, it’ll eventually fall a part from misuse. A squirrel with the memory of an elephant. What is its purpose other than taking on the burden of my regrets.  I love it so much, its genitals make it look so American. I love it so much,

I rub cooked lamb all over my body.

Spritz on a little Ungaro. I love it so much, I’m cuckoo. I love it so much,

I want it to give me whiplash. Perfectly organized until death. I love it so much,

wanna fuck. I love it so much,

drink this poison honey …

… a depressive writes about the future and everyone laughs at it. I am dead because I am stupid. Here my lip, here my head. Pull one to swallow the other, to get it just right. Precisely where value is ascribed is bitter coldness. Chest framework analogues a passé impasse. If I were not impaled by the ongoing urge to get it out, I would have liked to share with you more about the experience of straying from one text to the next sext.

No, the real drive is trying to get it just right. Literally.

Engorged breasts sway a brain or two.

It’s disgusting. By the authority infected in me,

I pronounce it …

… it will be short, it promises. It reads, any version of the human is haunted by a disavowed loss, and no version of the human can fully overcome this disavowel. The total liquidation of the social and the subject and its environment and its completion is not fully complete. It is why I continue to write.

Why do you sound so bitter, it asks.

It is exhausted and waiting for the right opportunity to move.

Sure, but it is also fortified, not unlike a castle, not quite breaking the bonds on any holistic scale.

Well, can you relate to it while kept at a distance.

I hear the sound, not of loose change, but dollar bills. The poet, summoned off the streets, stricken by the privileges of civil society.

Why is he begging …