with the Title of the Dead Title of the Deed willed
and brought to me by a mooringandlanguid man-in-a-coat deadeyed dead-ended dead ugly
who asked me whether I owned anything
whenever I told him: But dear
I cannot hold a Title if-if-ifff I have never
lived but (no less
nevertheless and nonetheless
Not Withstanding death) will die, too.
There is no straight line + it is cute mythology that soothes no one with a Title
straight lines are for geometrynotpeople
and I will steward the
no, will PILOT the
until it is done,
until it is unnamable.
ima eat the flack out of some miso innaminute
hard sell—the sale of the
idea that those Golden Girls:
are more existential
more radically (Maud, folks!) ******
than any Sartre translation—
and that Nico,
like a necrotic moth ate her own clothes
died on her last *** run, a great stoner
was finished rambling and gambling
These Days — and was more existential than
any loud Lou.
tail wagging wall of tails wobbling
wall-eyed little ball banging little tail
warring a wag with a finger little ale
a good day to cry with a little ale
filling a balloon with the toxic breath of
a loud mouth a good day to be at the tail-end.
In his own soft cocoon
of ever-coagulating, isolated
delirium, yodeling in the
company of himself alone,
a skull of mean bruised meat tarnishes.
Nosferatu would have balked if not gone bald.
They, too, from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate the lily pond,
Iron Lady in the swaddling baking egg pies, with spited
Curlers in our fronds and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict — is
A plumbed plum; a dendritic denizen for the cypress,
Willow that 's hung! Willow that sung! Soothing it hugs
the sights — such sour honors — so smooth-over the boy's club, so you can get in or out whichever youregoingfor;
bring them their rose water which drips next to the
chiffon and the lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
mato-mottled lunar ligament: by dew of the top lip, do lay —
go gray in taut winter
— The End —