Dear one, the sea smells of nostalgia. We’re beached and bloated, lie
on shell sand, oil rigs nowhere seen. It’s Long Island, and the weather
is fine. What to disturb in the heart of a man?
A boy is not a body. A boy is a walk.
Shed the machine.
Must be entirely flesh to fight.
Must be strategy instead of filling.
What to disrobe, there, centrifugal logic, as in here is a slice of my
finger. Tell me the circumstance of your dick extension. When we
slip into imprecision, we lose control, windowless walls close in.
Awareness of being in a female body is a tinge of regret. “The human
frame to adapt itself to convention though she herself was a woman.”
To receive, to be entered, to fret around upon entry. It’s grand. I’m a
system. Plants tall as wheat to hide in.