i could only tell them what i meant
if i
trusted the way my self looked in the other’s eyes

this is still true
coping, scrounging, what is the difference?
what is the difference between? i asked on every thing,
hung there on each thought
inside that steering quality of the tangent through the mirror behind the eyes
now and then poked at by the body’s attempt to quell the disjunct with sighs
or tears, perhaps, and then, for many, with a tepid anger
picture me thinking, that’s what i’m saying:

i was never 17, not anymore
or anything else, every day
and therein you feel you may be rising
here is the hump of the camel
you are old enough to find you are
getting hit and liking it
as long as there is pleasure in that

it is rather disgusting to be so singularly ripened
it is rather obvious and eyes care to puncture or steal such scenes of pliability
not cherish it

that is why the pasture is preferred by most
see there, no rabbit and no cricket
not a mention of the fragile turn of sex and the willingness and the bending down and the kneeling
what’s it like to be a cornered thing? on the fringe of being eaten
i watch it like watching the abandon with which a child cries
my eyes trusting the way terror looks in the child’s eyes

and pleasure comes strangely, pleasure comes
in the decorated space of difference
for the first time you saw it as the carcass with a spirit in it
the regalia of the novel thingness of every thing


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