That melt heart wicked ruminant

That melt heart wicked ruminant, that tremor; have known the blanker uncertainty, or means to recalculate and to give voice. Think of a hand gripped or a heel raised – you’ve criminalized your frank hunger. I can call you – you lay in a smaller light, and hampered by dream-colic. There’s a beaten, a rasp where the within has a gossoon style – I have a used word where the night is at swell, I can facilitate the use of a thing where the lack is apparent.

Having quietly heard a slattern chord, twitch non-tonal sound – I’ll declare, resist and sudden scheme a midden blame. You’re apart; whole; unnecessary the stretch but a way to lay claim, a way to handle an element. Itch where a foot crowds or crows in a fleck – this is sound for its sake, I have a means to number and name.

We have numismatic claim; we’re priapic. Call to mind a beastly goat/ghost/god – you know it has name and it’s neither hale nor mean to embed the real moron, the feeble-mind is abroad and you’d do well to be aware. Tool or cast words – I need to find a thread, a rook, a flushed awl.

Swift; flow or threaten at the mooring. Feel sound light, you’d have burdened it or laid it out along the central line. Call scooped nest temporary, call scoped rest hallowed – I can see where the midden line edges and the varnish peels, I have stepped. Flat beam of morning, misjudged or astonished at the slope.

Speaking

The assumption of your words a dedication, and one that came early. Your decision not to speak – barn raised the ribs of you in me, tied off at the tongue’s root like a bail and stopper, a cork welch that sealed you in.

Aflame; unrepentant at once and facing down any comer. Right or wrong but at least determined. Insistent – constant. A means to turn and re-use, to recall and call. Head-on, rare to come at a thing sideways. Known, remote. Use of a dialectic to prepare – to listen – to cut across and to best. Plausible denials of positions prepared in advance, perfect recall of what was said – maybe not by whom. No logographer’s skill but pure ethos, each possible betrayal tied to the character from the off.

Kilter, skelter – hellbent on the form of the proposition. Triumphant in the lame discovered. A brow-bating? Certainly wiped, adversarial or gladiatorial pose, honour amongst thieves – to live outside the law you must be honest.

For us, too – we established our tone as a wind bail hum through the glass – we allowed our own whine to sound through individual gripe or a mistake. The soured things – no lack of spirit muted us, we have been vocal daughters of Jerusalem – each in our own way dumbed by words, and as for the word.

Call the sound of things or their surprise something that we will come to own, or to control – if we meet head on, like a bone-break (blue break) – call that thing a greenstick fracture, bent more than shattered, and pining for itself. Marred, or a cross shouldered at the wrong time – the wrong cross shouldered. That colour-blocked room backed us as we began to unravel and still in some shock at the likeness. Not art, more meat – and a way to move beyond what was known as at dawn we rose and began again. Fire out words like this staccato machine – a kind or silence broken. Vow, pact set against the bone and reworked as soon as the time allowed for it.

It is words, after all, after we are done with them, that will hold us up and carry us up the hill. Cranial machinations that will align one with the next. And, in the end, we face our own T-test daily.

And I bit the flowers from your wrist corsage

I don't have any more to add ...

I'm going to read a declaration of a state of war

I am disgusted with myself every minute I am awake.

I don't even know how to donate, who to donate to. I think of the Weathermen - Our country was murding millions of people ... this revelation was more than we could handle ... every second of my life from 1965 to 1975 I was always aware that our country was attacking Vietnam

I think it's slavery, more generally, that must be attacked

This story was linked to via kottke.

Many feel that sex slavery is particularly revolting—and it is. I saw it firsthand. In a Bucharest brothel, for instance, I was offered a mentally handicapped, suicidal girl in exchange for a used car. But for every one woman or child enslaved in commercial sex, there are at least 15 men, women, and children enslaved in other fields, such as domestic work or agricultural labor. Recent studies have shown that locking up pimps and traffickers has had a negligible effect on the aggregate rates of bondage. And though eradicating prostitution may be a just cause, Western policies based on the idea that all prostitutes are slaves and all slaves are prostitutes belittles the suffering of all victims. It’s an approach that threatens to put most governments on the wrong side of history.

Another Claimant

LeisureArts steps down:

Art has never been a vocation for me and probably never will be. In a funny way, I take it much too seriously. To paraphrase Luc Ferry in writing about the Greek view of philosophy - I see it as a mode of life rather than mere discourse. I'll be around, but Dilettante Ventures, and thus, LeisureArts are no more. I've got too much living to do.

Or is that steps up?

Thinking Sinking

Some note-taking raises a mark on the subject. there are annotations creeping under the skin [sucking / lapping], they are crowded at gullet. You cause bold ejaculation! - call it a dropsied sense of what can be said or done, twice baked [deletia] where we dripped and homed. The beacon of your unspoken terms and an unlined notepad.

A discourse; a means of speechifying, spreading the blood of the thing. Call it a work, yes, one might feel honour-bound or blighted to do it some justice as it towers. No - a means to horror back through. Strip it. Desnude, debag. A way to case the simpler terms and to start.

It's closeness makes bold. Years now have given a break to the bidden ghosts, swaggering homonculi. Ennobled by dread. Peopling a cough. Alliteration made characters of them all.

Stumbling in the darkness - this waits, says it. What's all the rage? Call the interior humbling, a thing that has a term. Have it called out, have it declared or laid bare - the intention disposed of one Sunday wine-red morning as the edge rolled back. Met like a bone breaks. I've the sand, the stones - you've flint and the way it tesselates, the pave defined. I will emerge light all the hours we find and make.

hostaged by the moved - in light-dazed rooms atop a dead street allow the mind to steam and bend a curve in the wood, the joiner's art accomplished as the elements are bound ethic. Aligned and plastered. Not composition - for / at once. Flat entwinement. Marinade the frame where yours ends and siphon the better longings.

While I revisit the things you don't know you've left in me - the sacking of you and the elements. Wonder how your skin smells at all other moments of the day. Seduction; and the death of anecdote. Fall thrice over for the same inset stipple of your while. As you state and rail, I will paint blonde skies with the replicas, and will harrow (narrow?) the unset. An agreement starting in words forgotten then remade from the set bind - a term to adjoin or entreaty. The unpolished made perfect, bound and won, as the day wanes.