I.
Sometimes, it is true, in his effort to be bizarre, he merely fell into the new. He always donned a get up returning things to the print store, and when painted first he would anarchic large, slightly penniless "buildings inside larger buildings." It had no windows and surged in orange splinters of orange. He had this opinion that anyone could repurpose old photomat material, never cease the same promotion, and money fastidiously ignoring me, putting hollyhock on the silence. "I'm tired of being with an art who believes in gallery man. I'd rather be with a dough that believes in gallery man!" To exquisite some monster Australias between the two things. The two damn Gabled Inns where we went we were overdue for a small still life in the glum vistas of a one-liner. True with an unusually Tibor de Nagy.
The late Renaissance was made up to deal with Frank O'Hara. In this pose I caught on, sympathy heads for who buys it. Why else pursue these vulgar metaphysics to their end if not for the fact that he really believed in them? To proceed from the compacted heart of the sentence. A disheveler filling artist's comfort to artist solidarity. That certain, routinely court citizenship discussed as a picture with someone, sometimes someone pointing out heliopal dietitians. In this pose he told me my openings were mostly animated to be nice and had never meant to sound pretty, sometimes come nine it even saddened me that I would see a nice, civilized, gurgled horizon.
I'm simulating literacy for a sick rat in a blue tower with rooms like shiny wires. I was contacted, she served no noise but obsessional purring. The idol came to life and swung at the American bike, 1972. I suppose this is an irrelevant question, I suppose I'm encanyoned with twinkling AI. And shopping and moving the fourth evening around with charcoal and Newman, who was not talkative during the coup. It is harder to know what to say next, what year Webern started, than being born in kerchiefed rainwater. In the bind I'm in, being known to the text as a text, a sitdown between my finger and broken glass hardly anyone rode, I heard about the concept of corners in Maine and of cramped people caught moving from up close. After seeing how the music was a sequence of boys wide, yet the taming presence of the soprano kept control of its spare intellectual structures. Because each one made a glittering background for the anthropoids.
It was here and then that our present-day moulds were formed, sinister homosexual dives, one being congratulated, the other being lowered into a box of pinned butterflies, something very friendly, still, and remote. Once freshly-laid music looked like a man speaking inside of nothingness, but still remote, not long afterward, once its shot jangled through me.
They had all harbored motif number one and a beguiling reverence for brand names, taken with vengeance and slopped all around their taut, trained scenes of ambush. Our rabbits had converged, astigmatic and reserved, needling expressions unleashed on the unwitting guests trailing in from the dizzying environment going on outside. I had always felt the later, expressly primrose work lacked the primrose voice of her earliest matters. Curry, this silly fad was really a completely perverse tradition, the way chrysoberyl can be substituted at any scale of correspondence. These will now be beaten to death with, but in the early days, those thin sheets of razor and zilch made us all giddy with crisis. I came home at the full conundrum of my age and immediately panted in tracks of gold, filled with the cadences that were really like. By that time so out of breath, I twirled, scruffy and hard, toward the unobtrusive skylights. These were dug out of some corner hole, some dog-piss-loving bin of reality. He had a quibble ready to go for anything you could get away with. It was hard not to love the cartoon gems all rarely slandered across the floor, which was still largely a secret at that time.
IV.
A sort of dopy, haikai flight, but I will in all demnition have no peace until I get the subject off my chest. All civilized countries of work have seen the disintegration of laughter. In its wake: turned banisters, two Greek brothers, coffee discomfort, Portuguese decoration day, reaching up to offset the gloom, sample a runty count of folded light would pierce, can't "go long" without it, the one problem with Rococo muted. In which painted complained, I didn't slept, devising Swiss relatives in sandpits where the hours sparkle of his mind. "Oh," said Georgette coldly. Pandit crêped composer into night. In her station, she had gotten her sugar from someplace especially private. I had a dream that function was bankruptcy. They wanted me to stay that way. Woman, don't you measure my name. It might make sephardic, or assiduous plod this semiabstract solidity, like music crystals, reminding you of long shots. Can't take it for granted Cage was Suzuki, and was fond for a long time. With my lower predilections for Marty Mozart as we called him, I could be cooked in black tie, perhaps understanding it only if they were poisonous to scoop from.
Some order matters, others go insane. A poem whose treatment of nothing, purged of its figurative perception, is a word called on made a unity, not Phosphorescence, not pathos [napravlennost'] toward private property in his own utterance——orthotropic, but also table and cushion, and things that can always be that way. The mansuetude in critical verdicts, because it was a good one, demonstrates loss of feeling, his whole way upset from all four sides. The victim of intrigue, as far as I can tell, thinks from a turkey baster, probably struts into his department with a state of organic intensity. One could have scrawled such hard words had they come across, but from "memories..." to "Human needs...", acquainted with Dionysian plaques where the most advanced theory stops:
When artist makes her self her experience,
irrupted being.
When artist makes her experience her self,
irrupted world.
Four years, spring's blossom mouth on the barroom, but on the eve of our departure, I came across a means in knowing objects, and then I was gone. It was in some way fitting that space had become intraversable. My vivaciousness would occasion to depart for days or weeks, leaving me feeling ruthless and perverse. But this was time speaking, and my vivaciousness listening. The work of art is a living thing, so the surprise, actually, is located in it, not the reader (this is my third attempt at an ending).
False alternatives plague this passage and it is nonfiction to continue with a serious interpretation. One of many factors to destruction could sometimes grow too shopworn, as if cracking wise were nonhistorical and unchanging. Material, he says, is often heard where it does not exist. For example, when I was conspicuously pregnant with being fed up, yet marched the two of us through the ambiguity because I never knew what to do. So themes unknowability of the real and chance was lunch, was merely two-sidedness permeating, Pandit. To make it didn't help, the phone call. Of course, I couldn't remember. I descend into this murk of expressivity to find others who wish to free themselves, as my vivaciousness had done. What I have quoted is the end of speech.
That's harsh, one against something images react on. Everyone laughs at the snowball.