Monday, February 18, 2013

poem composed of scraps from documents named "extra"

I was hoping to extract the algorithm of your language, and this in the middle of purporting and defeating jingly musak (also, there is musk, of which scent I, as lady friend, absent in affection of late, am inclined to devour)(also we’ve been in this room for two days or was that 22 days
so when does language


for a breather anyway

you’ll never read all those books not really read them I mean but
they remain prizes in the shadowy cave (yes, I mean Plato) weighing down your shoulders and scraping at the muteness of your desire, transformation, so that finally the books are nothing but dead
and what is sacred really I mean really sacred do you recall
those nights
(were they nights
a more sonorous succession of night
faceted night?
                perhaps we are translators now, what explicit task
                what I mean is that you put your hand
                and night will pass quicker more quickly in any
                case we’ll pass “signs” back and forth and it’ll be fun.

Then they spoke the most perfect utterances to each other and he cauterizes the ends of his fingers so that their conversation can
or is that start
but unfortunately he uses up all of the paper to cover the mitigation

But it never would have worked out not really I mean I always had a thing for Liza Minelli and I never would have


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