"It's all pragmatics," you honk.
The Portuguese k/King has died four days before my birthday. It is 1433, I think, I thought, and I feel like my hands are consistently on display. I pull and I tug at them like they are an uncomfortable shirt.
"You had them in the dryer too long."
I squeak in non-sequiturs, "Only when I am sketching on them do I feel moderately comfortable with my existence."
Edward successes four days before my birthday, and I am smiling again, did you see that. Did you see it.
I feel like my lips are consistently on display. I pull and I tug at them.
and all I see is your shoes. All I see is your shoes. All I see is your shoes. Your shoes. Yourshoes. Your shows. Your Shows. You show me a few things.
and this will be the end of me. Composed and indicative. Platonic and corresponding. Oh, hell, this will be the end of me, I think, I thought.
and you look at me and say, you say, "Not much is going on in art."
You said.
I smile at you.
The art of collision. The art of accentual erotica. The art of windows. The art of top to bottom. The art of exploitation. The exploitation of "R"s and "W"s. The exploitation of panoramas. Hiding behind corners. Feeling lonely at the fish-market. Hovering above the sun-s rays. Standing on bridges wondering no-thing. So dogmatic. So totalitarian. Pull-ing -and- tug-g-i-i-i-i-ng.
We hold secret meetings in our mailboxes. This is Portuguese for something special. What have you to say to deja vu? This is Hungarian for my dreams and waking life corresponding with one another. I'm bursting into flames on the third floor of the library. This is Polish for the sadness I feel when I see airplanes flying. The leaves are yellow and orange and are shaking a little from precarious autumns and clumsy fallings. This is English. I can't warn them. Warm them.
Twinkle-toes, you say "human" and I think "lonely."
Twinkle-toes, I take out the yellow and orange paint. Twinkle-toes, I say to you, I say, "I'm starting with your face."
and the Ming Dynasty rules on.
