Dear one, the sea smells of nostalgia. We’ re beached and bloated, lie
on shell sand, oil rigs nowhere seen. It’ s Long Island, and the weather
is fine. What to disturb in the heart of a man?
A boy is not a body. A boy is a walk.
Shed the machine.
Must be entirely flesh to fight.
Must be strategy instead of filling.
What to disrobe, there, centrifugal logic, as in here is a slice of my
finger. Tell me the circumstance of your dick extension. When we
slip into imprecision, we lose control, windowless walls close in.
Awareness of being in a female body is a tinge of regret. “The human
frame to adapt itself to convention though she herself was a woman.”
To receive, to be entered, to fret around upon entry. It’ s grand. I’ m a
system. Plants tall as wheat to hide in.