Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Stalker Has Nothing to Lose
Pagoda sleeves fly wide open, and these
tiny little scale models of her incisors, no,
they’re shrunken friends from school, lake
specific critters in their sperm shapes, making
somewhat amateurish passes at la belle romance
reminiscent of that of the shoemaker doing piercing
on the side, back alley style, selling gold and calling it
by a name he heard in the sleep of a Tokyo bus sweeper.
The author is told by Steppenwolf in a dream to write but
can’t the more she swathes her form in biker garb, in smellum,
in her avoidance of the procedures of eradicating herself in order
that she might avoid the process of confronting not doing the work.
Her face looked as if it were carved in genital loathing, a ballsy, dainty
mademoiselle who evidently. Of course this could all be connected with.