… if oratory be the art of speaking well, its object and ultimate end must be to speak well.
~ Quintilian
At the first station I took a leak, at the second, I bought a watch.
The third, there was a stand selling plush kitties, at the final, there was the car waiting.
Art is always expectant, imperfect, ephemeral. We don’t wonder too much about it.
The warmth of the crotch is always eternal, spiraling into the memory like a worm.
A bore, an ice-fostered whisper, a bore, a drill, a bore, a breaking-point.
Thank you.
So, the first art: THEOLOGY.
A slut that rapes sweetly.
I remember a conversation about five summers ago when I sought to show my lady that my grasp of a certain concept was not quite like the grasp that the others had, that it was harder and softer (paradoxically) at the same time and quite the thing to be desired … to find at the foot of the bed, red, horny, and ready for the end … oh yeah! To find the source of All. It’s not hard. It’s now. Myself. Take it or leave it. That’s what IT says.
Thank you.
Now, the second art: PHILOSOPHY.
An irredeemable purveyor of anxious thought.
Someone who orders books,
someone one cannot trust.
Someone … that’s it.
A one.
A footstep in the hallway as one tries to sleep. A plan for the future all fallen to hell. A plague, a stylish nymph, a tribe of women slavering like hounds.
Fuck philosophy! Too many toads. I’d push her out the window, if I were Bukowski, but like him, I’d only have that devil HER crawl back again.
Suck the Triad: POETRY.
Demotion recollected in tranquility. Devolution tortured by its opposite. Demonstration of the lust for life that renders pointless the fangs of the omnipotent ONE.
My teeth want to bite but I’ve a calcium deficiency.
