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| from Where The Desire Goes Scott Inguito |
You launch out most days already drowning, a hand from the past over your mouth or maybe it's your own. And your choice of materials: baitless senses, thought once thought novel now a long list of disabuses. Now camping's cool. It always was, in in the meantime, which is now averaged time, regulating the weed takes all day. No longer embittered against any simple good offered, shit is kind of funny. And sex without love isn't. Frugal apprehensions go slack, wrinkles in all directions. Bored faces creased sharp for show on the street for strangers numb out to outrage radio, the fog and fluff of spit, open-mouthed breathing. Ring out your plosive screen once in a while. Yeats was sort of right: the shopping center did not hold. At the fairgrounds in summer the 4-H raised hogs smirk: 'It's happening in Soledad.' State-farmed prisoners pork union pensions, line somebody's bacon. I see you holding that head, farmer. I see you cutting that lettuce farm-laborer. The radio dribbling outrage, looking for the bad guys. J.P. Morgan? Sure. A little humiliation doesn't go as long a way as it used to, if it ever did, depends on the family of man you're from. How's it taste? Swallow the amuse-bouche of punishment, the punished playing slapdick and watching isn't even fun anymore much less tugging at your own junk. Gossip's lost its salt, just suet and flies, elk jerky sucked on. |
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