a polylog : a hurrah for anything map, a dial log travel log, a periphrastic wrestling, a travelaid, a patacadastral survey of complaisance, complicity, paranoia and desire

a polylog :

a hurrah for anything map

a dial log travel log

a periphrastic wrestling

a travelaid

a patacadastral survey of complaisance complicity

paranoia and desire

i don’t remember anything that tastes like the tomatoes of my youth she says with a ciabatta halfway up her mouth like a drunken baby marmot in one of those eponymous cartoons and a lonely rocking chair in her psyche waiting for a feeling to finally run its course and long for a little outoftheway place to end its days but what i do – and she says this less to no one in particular than a klatsch of impressions punting on an abandoned canal of pleasure who (were one to be given the right to access to ask them) might say their interest in progress was lesser than the greater of the afflicted aspects of gravity – is an adumbration of a seedling of oneiric exhaustion like a tessellated diamond print that looks from a distance like a secret passageway to an outhouse replete with invisible doors leading to unmappable universes

nightshadecide i’m undetermined is a clear issue i respond with kalamata pits in my nostrils like a minimalist shaman from a warped and culinary internet you must in your murky galleries of fuzzy images recall us together touching an apple with our body parts under the crepuscular tree and it was not as if we were in love for love then was not anything one could be in for it only could be in and nothing then to enter

unmappabler unmappablest she says as if none of what i say registers anywhere, as if talking were not anything commensurable but a forensic rappel from an undeterminable edge and the sun when it is just an orange ball in the ragged boreal beach becomes plasmatic on calm meadows of distortion and the ciabatta sways suggestively and i cannot help but think of the time we were bitten on a fated limpopo by vitrescible gazes as we said the nadanoster to a glazier’s luminescent lechery

king kalamata caresses me she says he caresses like an imperial shag. all i would like to do is have utility companies make mistakes on my bills and have to eternally call them for recurrent restitution. i would get rich and all i’d have to do is call and king kalamata would do his ypapantis on me and my tomatoes would reunite like siblings on a weepy screen after long pyrocumuli of massacres and king kalamata would take me to maria polydamouri and we would echo chirp the chaos faint on beds of consumptive threesomes

i am touched by something reminiscent of ramen scent in a mendicant’s amen like a whiff of iffy whiff waff wharves and with shirataki in my hair and sansai in my yonsei say we have come to watch the living like a banquet of prophets and poets and diets of corsets and worms and butbitholes and corsages and who would join us in genius to genesis an isis’ myiasis and where is my william when will i am is gone?

she slouches. she slouches like a a jilted macaroni penguin. eurydice eudyptes euripides in conjugation sits in a eucalyptus in state or eupnea and i look through the unfathomable distances like tetradecapoda tetrazzini. please come back to our ommatidium and let us be rhabdomites together as we used to on hypnopompic escarpments

i am alone she says and my perception increases in indirect proportion to identity. my words are my earwax and the stage of myself is an intolerable song but it’s all there is and lunacy in a eupnea tree is just another form of wrestling

and we sit or something there or here the two or

so of us or them food all around and in or

of us and countertalk or transistorize a hurrah for polyperimapinguano surveywrestling anythings