Wednesday, January 27, 2010


you are about to enter a certain kind of goodnight moon. making you make you make love in still light paintings. don quixote told the dog, "this is a situation we do not choose. It forms our horizon of choice, and grounds our responsibility." fuck him in the mouth with great velocity. anything that destroys limit. the insistent repetition. everything is visible, nothing is hiding. whispering there inside a structure. now i tell everything in my own language exacted out(side) of myself. this is not a poem about the mind. Suffering greatly, Don Quixote agreed. cutting it reaches, disappearing into the younger one. This museum sticks, hotly to my skin. forcing it i will likely hurt.

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