by devi beloved

& this is the undoing of another dictum — & so for what would i not seek bodily autonomy, the desperate dream of an immaculate will? // unfolding & closure, the limbs of a dervish — so stillness is a difficult region to commit to, what with lesions-of-grace & tropsickle bartering & so forth // oh palfrey, dalfrey! ’twas that selfslain undoing in & of its shelf, its meandering gurney & drillowsilk cambience in the wreaf of the unsloan // or how about this: fauxmongering gallantry treaks & wreakles, manifesting designs from the holyofuck grownyown, as a result of which the monad quirt quite undevailingly, as deliciously shimmying floozies mistook the glow for rotten row // deframe the figure, leave facts asides & flumegate the gruen facedown to transfer, for i am sick of these lies, the lies that live all over; sick of shingleclad wishes that row back & spill over the irrefutable fact of the female image // i miss thee, soul of love; so much, like fangled flowerwilds bellusion themselves in the shade of yore, & i do dream, i do wish, that your arms would yet contain me, & that words, those pretty party favours, would make it all turn out okeliedokay // the point, henceforth, of red brick sickness //