It is okay to be left in culture’s prodigal hole.
When privilege is given a label, there assumes
guilt over a hole of privilege. The lofty creations
fall to creaturely habits, stalkpreysnuff the trail
for bleeding cunts. I am so illiterate I can only
scorn you, the beautiful country leaks from me.
Notley says I’m diminished by anyone’s refusal
to be equal, and I think her mobility, the Paris sun,
became a hole to place her gruel of away. I chew
on a thigh until I too become the raw gristle of beautiful
function. If humanity has a hole, we store shame there
and I’m capable only of humanity. The horror of
society is we still sometimes love each other.
There is always a first sentence to condemn us.
Men remove their airs, they put them on. They
put them on women who put on airs. Who don’t.
A blue rain interrupts nothing. Dumb cunt.
Paper pushes around a bad heaven. The city is
still warm. I can’t see a city without hearing Camus
conclude avec des cris de haine. With cries of hate,
I stuff myself full to silence myself. I think
resistance is the first devotion and something
large in me mildews in want of ascetic want.
I breathe a sour breath and something symptoms.
Dumb cunt. Dumb semi-literate cunt. Dumb cunt.
I label myself myself and I label the world what it is.
My hole vibrates. Another hole vibrates.
What glory! Holyholyholy. All over the worldlines shape the crystal and shit of men.