spins Of The monster

I like the way they walk,

baby ducks:

Feet first and out. Hands behind back because they

no longer

wish to reach.

And look at old women, says I.

Children I care not for.

Tomorrow, oh, is Sunday,

what is it like to become unmoored?

I have caught rainbows of some of them.

Wrinkles, says you.

Mancala almonds, says I.

The Marcona are reserved for after-dinnertime, I was told,

because they sound fascinating.

Like so, Terracotta is a fascinating word that

has been lost on most things now.

Everyone adores blue instead.

What shame it is to recycle words when there are more

that do not exist.

Love is one of these.

Music, another.

How important it is to dance, yes.

Do you truly believe that I will not dance

when I hear the music?

You stupid little

Fucker.

You do, don’t you!

Allow me to retrieve my bell of shame. It is for cows.

The sound of it shall swallow you in scenario.

There are no scenarios that I do not see.

Lately they contain fishbones and evil, circling goats.

i do not consider their meaning. Only that i have original thought.

There is something alive in me that bites and bursts to get out.

Provocative and has teeth that are interesting.

I am interested in Pursuit of Betterment 

but that is unforgivable. Frustrates me.

Is the mention of frustration a dizzying thing? Does it drift by in sound?

(It is—to me—a redistribution of soul.)

Frustration, at times, becomes a softer thing.

Lets passage to a worse, more odorous nonsense.

this Frayingly Knotted Twine across my vena cava occasionally reveals itself to be those 

stupid chordae tendineae and

they are slick with fat that I have started to make

for myself, but- shhh!

I am unkept by the thought that I beat

just as everyone else. 

That perhaps my love is just as physical,

I contain such love inside me that everyday it triples

into itself.

Folds

over the already layers,

wraps back.

It is sewing itself back into itself.

I feel tug, too, unbreaking. Around my sternum.

Is Taffy puller in candy shop. Window.

Eternally stretching, everly pulling.

Flexing, so that it does not

turn brittle.

Or stale.

Tearing, no. Even when it looks about to.

I wonder if this is the good thing.

It has given way to shin splints. Before but only twice.

The muscle, you see, faltered

And came unmoored from    the bone.

Attaches back to me still.

Like traveling, Love goes up my throat and touches nerves

whom shoot my brain. It does this 

everyday. 

Yet some afternoons it is stronger punishment.

I await the appointed,

Dickensian

explosion.

for Blubberous Oil.

I heard once that anger turned inward is

Depression.

I say that Love turned inward this way

results in beauty.

Perhaps the sorrow we pay for beauty

all along is

love. I am chiefly a dramatic self. 

Hate to be so predictable, but I do not know if

i can bear such consequence.

It sows me, anyway.

I have folded my love over ten thousand times,

all I have to show for it is the 

gentle stack…

Have taken to laying on it.

Especially when I get the spins.