it's hard to wake up from spending
a month in a monastery of a novel
and entertain this...

this... the internet is hardly
a ******* Kandinsky...

but the odd prop comes up
to further the narrative...

off the top of my head...
the question eric metaxas
asks milo yiannopoulos:

do homosexuals
even like fleetwood mac?

ah... now i know what we're
"dealing" with..
cue:

  do heterosexual men
like simon & garfunkel?

really?
i only liked scarborough fair
because it was autumn,
and it was England,
and the wind and the leaves
and the suburban cement:
and i was reading
Dostoevsky at the time:
on the bus, going to school...

i was a teenager:
and naturally androgynous...
what teenager isn't
androgynous:
but some is fixated
on this:
yeah... and by looking
at a baby's face:
you can tell a babe male
from a babe female:
like you can tell a cucumber
from a zucchini...

one *******
leverage after another...

the song cecilia...
esp. after watching a movie
like kramer vs. kramer
or rosemary's baby...
is a "hard-on"...
like...
something from a Cuban
urban fresco...
peacock colors of
architecture...

the question, to reiterate:
do homosexuals like fleetwood mac?
dunno...
do heterosexuals like
simon & garfunkel?

unless they're teenagers,
entrenched in a russian novel...
autumn...
and...
                  i'm actually glad
in seeing Milo humbled...

at least this Icarus didn't die
but fell into the hands
of a lullabying cradle's worth
of hands and conversation...
      
it's hard...
after a month's worth of
engaging with a monastery's
worth of a novel,
reading in silence...

returning to this funfair,
this circus...
well...

        Elvis is still someone
other people adore,
Beethoven is someone
i can only listen to in transit...
a man, a season,
a fancy,
        and...
yes... i compete rather than
cling to a decree to
take the modus operandi
literally...

          a true poet of the flesh:
contra the poet of the mind...
which is me...
imbuing the transaction
of:
            ******* into a glass
of wine, and drinking it...
your flesh my flesh, mine...
you:
        how else...
            to resuscitate...
without agitating
the Hindu polytheistic
   paradox of reincarnation...

best i feud my blood with yours,
hey: yell'ah all the Vatican's
flag base...
          you will not being
reincarnated:
   but i can trickle
in a fervor to agitate the bowl...
and...
   imbue a mirror with
a ripple expanding
upon the face of a freezing
mirror...

this is becoming a ****'s worth
of farce:
   Versailles in their mouths...
but ***** in their minds
and Gomorrah in their hearts!
as long as:
dyslexia is not alleviated,
but sentenced to cipher...
in:

               a *******'s worth
that disregards the original
fate of hitting *****,
polar apart: no...
ping pong will always be
deemed counter-cultural...
what with tennis...
being tennis...
and... a no-sport whenever
the counter-cultural sports
allign at the Olympics...

   the one time you'd like
to spectate the counter-culture
of sport...
and you're still intruded upon
by the mainstream culture
of sport...
every single time i watch
the olympics on t.v.
i am... undermined by
how little time "obscure"
sports are given...
esp. the English
coverage:
who gives a **** about
the sport where the English
will win?!
can i see a sport for the per se
element?!

no... this isn't working...
either the cheap *** isn't working...
or i can't re-engage with
what is a month's worth
away from what was
prior to: my niche...

what ever this is...
this certainly wasn't...
   whatever this is...
whatever it was:
hardly a niche...
more like an iron maiden.