bierre pourdieu

We could part not once and for forevermore, but necessarily more than. In two days we ran daggers through our leftright turfs, opening orifices born only for rivers to leak into, drinking space (as you should more often); In that same non-time mapping not solely within mind, but with eyes & fingers & lips & tips with tips of tips on mountaintops. The ones in Europe atop which we retell the elephant’s story, feeling faint from how these new traces deny bingbong-lightness, resist unclotting.

Love, we could diverge on unfamiliar ground but we could not. Again we return to weightier soil : Reaching the boundary, the sinking cores of two spaces will converge… we will be raised, elevated almost towards the altitude of closer to, with, towards distance from. Fuck labels of impulsion / we are not in control / the paradox of agency! We shall meet for lunch. 

No. What is this, pretext? There is nothing more certain than yearning for your lover’s… your lover.

we can be left only with thank you for-,
                      you are so- ,
                                                                               i can’t-,
       where are words?
                                                   they hold us so close
                                                                           but we fail to articulate
                  what is this
                                                 a dictionary displacement
                                                    repository replacement
            how behind verbal vocabulary can be! 

And how strange :
Despite how our lips cannot shape words they can each other’s. Despite our sudden deadequation all this is so enough. It is this very more-than that has left us without words. Lacking lexicon. Lexicon, lacking. oh, soft…

Lie now on this same softness. Sink not in the same way
Yesterday is a tale for a without-time –– & so patient, will, comfort’s,



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