Henry Miller is dying, come to Paris, tomorrow.
Dying, dying, dying, dying in your crying, child. Dying in your Deleuze, dying in your guitar of a thousand plateaus, and Sartre was dying, Foucault was dead, Genet died in Paris, 86
dying a refuse to mourn to grieve your death
O Father O Stepfather O Mother
Jillwas dying for Deleuze was dying out the window with Spinoza the Baruch there to catch him in his nape of caught neck in the broken down step of their death,
Nietsche`s daughter was dying but the gods reinvented by the nymphs had their pleasure and the goddess gray-eyed cried out, yelped the.
Mist came over her .
And the pancreas failed , broken, squeak machin-e-
broken in its token andthe fire tore down the tall of Paris, out the right size highrise window
'Dying in your crying'
the digital voice rethundering the echo thudding across the playing field.s. And the was no poetry in that, that lyric strained rebacked inthe American voice, that is the simple seed of the complex phrenia of her loving, her bodies many one.
Deleuze is dying come to Paris.
Now, not tomorrow in the clickety day
mapped hands freckled with time`s disease
Something like this
And someone else`s body speaking
Cheeky like a sunset and the death went clown around the down gone sun, into the drink of his body big ship in his deathwright sail. So many others. Not named across their speeds of history, their rseeds a hysteria of mulk and mighty.
Henry Miller is dying come to Paris tomorrow
Genet was dead, and nobody knew
Sartre was dying
Everybody was dying ...
Not So, said the Red King in his Communist flag and desire was a page on the numbers of cans, and toes, painted white as eyespots , or sports of naked bodies, their asses held high in that gleaming theatrical sky, the hands of dolphines wipin' them clean
And the logics of hatracks, harlots and desire-members was a printed page inthe sky
in the clan of hope the calendar of rainbows and the forgotten thought and the new female grass that waited on the Longfellow wind weir in the posture of a boot polished glanced off its death and its raiding sunset ripping down the boulevard as Mozart cries hair whirled in the wind
bordello of walking streets
broken word before broke promise
and the comma sits and stares by Emily's Chair
Our Father in immanence and in no cence