Plum Flesh

New foundlings of a gone world roam lightly on tar and fabric. See there a stunned money man and his rumbling pocket of fish, all his meanness goes wildly and forward. Lift to uncertain height that willing dog, spots or something for feeling closer to places where I’m vulnerable…so vulnerable like seeing a young woman young and friendly but she has too hairy arms for me and something else like learning to sweat enough. The world passing me by with me staring at it in the face, swift in heart. All philosophers and plowmen whisper something to their lovers at night, some of them lovers to each other. The string thing gathered the world under its aegis and weather for new feelings for no one whatsoever wishing to rim the glasses or some kind of fish haggling in the ether for a chance at things, then things, then things again, more things. This one goes with saying, this one without. Either way, no one sees what happens in the swish, we one and another getting too sad for just doing strange things. Here, fuck, I am in my aloneness, feeling alone and like I have given up so much, the domestic world that I aspired to and gave up and couldn’t handle and the two girls perhaps were out on dates and I with nothing, but my uselessness thoughts shuffling through post-steri(li)ty, they are shabby and give no bread, no milk, no light feeling like I am free. This is the experiment, fanciful and brown in the closet. I ask and ask, but really am mostly silent, afraid, low-selfed, depressed, aloud in the world wishing for a voz intelligente and you/me you/me, poetry of the bed, little sayings with neck nuzzling et cetera and bands around my arms. There is no you and I am thirty five and alone again, Christ. Alone again and wishing for the work to be done without its doing. A lazy self1sh fuckhead, ranging thoughts through mountain scopes, alone in the world with demons and fantastic me, charged and changing. All the brothers and me are quick, grown in the elder tradition of baying hounds. Frakking pound of flesh.