Addison is a good egg that doesn't eat eggs (or chickens for that matter). Keeping things sunny side up in New York City since 1994
I name myself rien
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I mean to write using the French en fait for actually
and for I am, I am. I talk to me:
You idle like a throb a humid palm weave of charred leaf .another country’s war.
Palm oil, oil, Orangutan, thingy thingy. Other country.
Baby, you’re so safe you read about fire just to pretend the burn
You remember ice on the fire escape
Cracked kitchen tile need not replace
Inside staves its own utter away from your suckle
You walk with Virgil and can see the apes
The apartment is lost like an egg
You imagine washing away with your mother’s uterine lining
A dot like a bic tip
Night sky split its Okra bellies over and over
A curl of the whole magic jungle come down ur head
This is shopping while the hairline lasts
A pink i’ve never seen this must be blood in the white sand
blood finger painted on an envelope
You have viable semen
A. Reason. To. Write. The. President.
A reason to do nothing
Nothing. Nothing loving. Felled like a shithead sitting on
plastic-packed chicken breast
you’re bored but refuse the hunger
Art as obsession with permanence
As a fixation my girlfriend with her finger in my asshole.Has
indeed aborted other obligations.lush breadfruit
with beebeeQ. her cheeks overripe with the end of sleep.
It took Baudelaire to make me
use my own finger look no further see fur
see me a tropic of a tropic
Yes. do I lie do I steal?
A photograph pretends to be a statue
this sentence pretends to starve to suck the minerals
out of beauty as it declares itself stone.
She plunges. We jiggle. One of us
jiggles. We come, we come with knots and wishes of stamen
bundle of knuckles sauce packets and pillow cases.
This is the impenetrable we came to hoe out of our own dirt
Her work as a sentence eraser in the baby blue
uniform with the v-neck and the clipboard and the
sterility of death that purifies her where she stops
like the Ganges which is also a dead goddess. Her
work as a place of worship a gut a hole an echo
or the skinniest part of that place: her work as a
minaret a spiral staircase a cheetah amongst a
skyline of poachers and elephants tallied in
blood ink how much for her sacred skin?
Pleading French to the sea
her story is incident of kitsch:
Qu’est-ce que je peux faire?
Je sais pas quoi faire!
Her work her work is kitsch is god
she becometh holy water stork or bruja
to the pink dress to the maritime kiss
her work in the factory of kitsch of shoes of fairtrade
Kundera doctrine; Godard je-ne-sais-quoi
“Go out tonight. Get drunk. Have fun.”
she becometh. And is said: here is me after