In Uncategorized on 100528 at 2208

All alone, I and all protagonists, as we slip and manage the crowd and awkwardness, sit, we put ourselves in corners.  Lucky are the characters to be inside some plot.  I am not in the level of the sunset, I sleep through it in my shadows.  She holds a tuber in her vulva, and it festers, and she faints.  She carries the fear in her forehead, and the audience knows to look for it, oh see those stolid eyes.  Oh, breathe with her, and swear you’ll never let her cousins cry, say you’ll see it, the storm and gust and swaying grass, the dark way before dusk, the wet and sullen, the dark.  All that stand to say loving Ludwig takes them to pleasantness, who sing the Mississippi, who bash the common banalities; they forget, they are themselves swept, and pass over the ailing, aching embarassed miniature elephants.  How can you not notice this?  The sad is soft, is common, cotton, and cannot live without your thankfulness.  Admire everyone, the circle of standing city swingers, the long faces of adult knowitalls, take passion on them, don’t be embarassed, and even in the throngs, some will recognize your quiet song.  Your swinging corn, bending in the wind, can’t win.  One never wins.  One is only whipped, frothed, and with hope never lonely.  Oh, it is a task to take the lonely toward the billowing everything, the rustle, the thistle, the swallow, surfing, singing, the dutcher painting pinstripes on every 3D curve and stem, centralizing the plainer parts.  The children in the movies buoy my volatile not-knowing heart.  My not-moving, my moaning, shivering, the bongo grumbling — deep and never commanding with no company.  Sing with me, sting complacency to sway with me.  The lone madonna grips each church, but where is the thorn that makes her cry?  I want a partner not for bedtime; I want a backyard that beckons all the town to come and chat, hold and stroke the cat of fear and frivolity, stroke, there there, here is the home we can always be leaving.  Her vulva is becoming sullen, but cure her with her hand, cure her by asking about her mother.  They cry, Tommaso, but no one knows his sullen secrets, the magic that keeps him timid & silent, his tipping is what we all want, oh spill your wants.  But it is something inescapable that haunts.  His leverage cannot be tweaked, I seek the root of pain.  I fall and splat, and hide, who wants to see the blood and machinery inside.  The dying bird, clack-clack-clack, keeping thumping, this mystery has haunted me, but everyone looks away.


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