Suffering from a bout of metaxia.
Dearest Diotima,
Plato is a fool!
if he will not wrap you wet up like beneath a body above. I’d rather go blind. Baybe babe. I-I,
ah-m-I-Imo- Imo tell you anyway:
which fruit of divine? Sullen. Streeted. Treed. What to do with a windowbreathe?
C(u)(al)m? Wouldn’t lick a lifted leg (rooftops tell otherwise’us)
what of thig[] deliberdone (candy) stuck, suck-onned? [h] –
[ow long alingers slid it to the almost uh]. (Fawnd) of [pepper]-(meant) (then) (be-rob’d
a) weary lip.
Experimence made
me hat-hater of him solids anyhow (tonguey). Just Soc(k)s, (rats). Whe’d
e(e) half wear’em eh? Pretender me! Like I coulda bricked the
moon (course I do).
Sincerely,
Sincerely,
Sincere.
P.s. Metaxy –
“the in-between,” “the middle”: of poverty & possession. Eros, says He,
displaces what divinity lie between (ergone: there is everything that can stand
in that holy way). Don’t
cock up, say the ancient pail. So let’s talk about the trooth, I say. Cards, He says,
they tell you tales. Diotima, you have said nothing to date, (olive), [fig]. Poor poor
pauvre (op)posies! Sunsets in our eyes again.
