I left you last evening without the usual privileges. A lot of what my body was was toxin, that held me aloft in idle price, far from the witless wood and Arcadia. There’s no more moon for birds to buss at over streetlamps. Urchins make their way in the mist, trolling for dinner rolls. How frugal my recent times were spent, the clocks keeping how stoned a content. There’ll be much better dawns than this forthcoming.
 
Now—silver morning, body trussed across a sphere—what would Salome do? A certain Grace is coming toward you and xe is lovely. The troposphere might solder the iron we sought here, the sky is neither an abaude.
 
What Portia lacks is not anatomical, but philosophical: ‘bitter is my sustenance, melancholy my food, sorry my wine.’ Expressive geometrics of the New York sissy—and with such a disfunctional phone! Portia tells her students get thee to a muhfuckery, where I’ll lay thee fool across my lap.
 
P meets Sally’s longings, her shoes untied, and everything about her demonstrating a careless desolation, a blue eye and sunken. Take one step further and the Grace coming toward you is Beauty. The Grace turned away from you is Restraint. Hassan pleading for her life, fainting, having a bucket of water thrown on her, reviving.
 
Nothing but a farce, we animate Wall and Moon. The art is cruxy to the love-juice. Once there was many a sight, but now they are wilting, poor lambs. Once a malapert downpour, uncharacteristic of the rains of this place. Next football, a hemistich. The belle lettrist’s idea of a billet-doux, the scientist’s idea of a sauna.
 
What with their consummate barbeque wines, their tawdry dance moves, their go-go girls of yesteryear—we thought the Impressionists were trying to impress people. Fez—an impossibility the universe grew out of. Flaubert saying, Madame Bovary, c’est moi. Loeretta casting her lots.