Three from Wardolly
in yesterday’s chamber, we met against all available forms & procedures, bright
indicia, our wooden homes in the dunes.
city of fragile egos in crowded halls, our sweaty-faced cubicles.
it doesn’t have to be a horrible agency, these sparks & solemnities, wandering
sky-plain, arduous blocks.
Sissy’s was actual shoulders, valentine. not much fussy energy.
cut from & public
nearly as much as centers for interpretation scared of info and cleaning a course, a
pigeon entry, or the center is toxic, an interactive map, meant to extend the late
industrialized regions or fossilize fruitstamp bursting neglect to illuminate our
common engaging flowertop, our nearly as projected themes in the skyharbor
random catch, in the veryblue verypink method, or in the playdough roughage mix,
you know. other ceremonies, namely the question of origins and the debate with
the plaything resident mercenary self, or that other blind fugitive capsule embodied
in time, flesh, & who, in her grief.
is only part of a larger relief. won’t you stay near me, on the other side of the water.
unwittingly attended, over a period of time. ground in the wherewithal, the actors
created double & servant. different aspects of a single one, more phalluses were
hidden. careful disjunction, wearing his garment. & the housekeep, & the mend.
the mystery basket, no doubt because it was connected with the destiny of a virgin.
the posture of the little hero is self-explanatory.
after & for Yedda Morrison
A Thousand Virgins Shout Fuck Off
to the indie filmmakers carving youth’s particulars with their gnarly todds even
while portraying the multitudes as merely disgusting protrusions of existence &
commerce, even as their own onionskins over their hypnotic guts.
in heaven, a thousand wallflowers shout fuck off across the dance floor, in heaven,
because gwyneth paltrow is not that great, and neither is uma thurman
are you writing your name?
a thousand virgins shout fuck off to the men of religion
to the men and women of god