once again — cracks hands, sucks bones — we are here. made up my mind to keep the internet as a hole to stick my face into; how stifling to make it, parlor-room
i cannot tell people who sent us money for the wedding when i want to cut my head
off. back into the loom — it is the plucking season, weaving yet
to come, hoping something will return to head. poetry writes itself, eventually. all the hot
bone-dripped girls in the wet churning cunt of the internet say so. lest we say —
well, no — here are some critical objections: the personality of the romantic, autumn and
death, is the sophist, and yet he is sitting down, he is writing.
(we start with the greeks)
poem: return
the last pavilion 