I Won’t Be adulthoodedness Anymore
All i want is your little bouquet in the night,
Mr. “Art is art-as-art.”
Is strobe’s collective surprise still only for me?
Let reasonably “real” external manifestations of inner nervous receptivity-of-impulse welcome me,
and yield with musically wired meat consciousness
the same fleeting ”tawdriness” of other.
I am truly chiaroscuro glottal mucus slippage
When i crush into the yang of trial dessert,
nonchalantly and impudently naked
Love begin to narrate its mechanical trickery in me
But there’s only cellular messages at the apex
of American consumer fetishism.
Really, i can’t exhaust language without you, my shaped tone
I remember on your storm of dark jittery sparks to me
The day when you became my slowly uncoiling projector
Flickering me over with your haphazard composure
I won’t be pizzicato (MUTED form of plucking) or variable oval (actually unnameable) beautiful ruffled crisp language “sparrows,” – free from dogma and staged subservient “outsideness” – or a burst of white scratches… in anybody’s brain-dance ¬– anymore.
Otohime 