break into air
breathe into air
don't break man
break it or lose it
break the air
like a man
breaks in his
the hairy air
then sentenceless i don't exist rip
lick leather men sniffing
one might hang
one night about
break the air
one just might smoke leather man
Your rejection is both expected as worn and terrifying. I’m an editor. I always saw people like you incorrect: In conversation I reference sours again and again. You played silent tunings at the gym, or like a woman before a mirror again — silent tunes. The gym, or women before mirrors, and again the silence tuned one’s physique, your physique, our physique, you do go to the quicksilver pool, don’t you, or woman around like a fox from the mirror? And again mercury silent. Tune it twice, we did — we? — maybe. At once sour, then terrifying, green rind, ground, further ground. Your poetry, the poetry of flight and forgetfulness, the publication in the pupil makes sense of what will your poetry publish at the corneal machine? Reach down, writhe. Ends up the word is try. Lappets and scanlines. I’m an editor. I always saw people in the people.
I woke, feeling of particularly base moral character, because of this dream I had.
The dream was built upon a typically gauche bacchanal at a filmic hivelike Midwestern frat house, a free Chinese buffet erected on the street outside operated by presumably a crosstown rival frat, the unacceptable total loss of some unreplaceable button down-type evening wear, and the medically airtight revelation by special hand delivered letter that I did in fact have AIDS, contracted during a blasé threesome during the prior night’s hockey party.
let’s lie in the top left corner
you will see this sun rise
one you could not license
licorice diamond the lady reaching
waves of her lysergic arm one to brace another column of instead a list of historical events hysterical
lucy against the unbottled still morning air hips lips lost
lyrics careworn Theberton Hoof a gamers eve and tossed
in the bard’s hearth in the bad thrasher in the raga man a lyric
whence bank the bottle bears its beggar up from the mirth of brake
staring at the rising choice we bare to falsify ourselves our harmless hearts.