(AppreCJ8n, 0.48: If You Moveon)
Coz these everythings are nothingtadowith
that juggling worm, chance, the hermaphrodite baron of brokenhearts,
whocould keep Twobeschert like Elizabennet and Darcy in a dryshirt
in a loblolly quadrille mired, infuriatingly
offpaired. Move
and i'll turn inwards inturnta me, regressively,
coz You've movedme int' two, Cee.
AndifYoumoveon o i'll never returnfrom that!
Ta need You i neverneeded the meekest push
- like an awestruck parent's,
one for their pickney pinkiac or puppydogeyed
compound o' puppydogtails and cinemartyr floutlaws like josey wales ,
yapping on the swings,
highabove the dogends
and what is lowered from dogs' ends.
o stone the christs, i luvYer! By hitler's beard, i luvYer!
On Yer elvis my elvis or someoneelvis,
i'd swear at visions of someoneelse,
and blast 'em ta haiti, which sounds like hades bothways.
Ratherreport foolosophers, betcha schrödingos,
ta the r.s.p.c-ats; relinquish my possessions,
myspidermanlego and thepostmodernheirloomsof theworld, my po...erms,
ta the unsystematic oneway solo cistern oftheworld,
than letHerset my mulatto pistachio berlingo libido
kicking 'n' screaming free onta genewildermildstreets of hethersett,
coz then
i'll never settle again.
i'd irreverently breastfeed
chesneyhawkes with my moonmoist moobs, yoicks,
or buff off the arkroyal with ianhislop's arch jizzcloth,
asall tribulations are e-z-p-z in this paradise,
my paradise nibblin' at Ceejay's norkstock.
Whether profane mansions of idolatrous mirrors,
or eschatologicallydoolally rainbow nation gardens of doctordoolalia
towers watch over in the joho brochure; fireescape theology,
or escherian eschatology of infinity scuppering escapology;
for paradises biblical or livenearable are both bliplical and gliblical
topicsof plop, tropics oftropes whenyer contrast 'em
'gainst when You ah...
ah round me. An' tho' runningofthemildew human
thanks mightbe faintpraise ta superhuman women queened by humane spirit,
i declare i'm thankful She's still human. Thankful She'll love Her lice beinggeezery
yet tender, like a lemon
caesar in Our loverssack,
tho' no lubicon ta cross
with loving living up ta embodiment beyond trite tribadism,
my borgne boa still the cis cocacola of vulva vulning.
Let's be selfish about Us, fallloopily and nonfallopially in love
every weightless minute,
go on going on go on, You did teach me
that merrilymiserable, hacktoffhinged artists
don't havetasuffer all the ways alone. Dohaveta pretendthey forget
they're pretendingit - o iam the sumof the trialof the errorsof
aesthetic stitches. But even the good, madbadanddangeroustaknow
ones, us wondrous bastards are not that
effortless love of the quirky, ideal
art in personhood in person, like those few itmustbe who are You,
multidimensionally beautiful Ceejay. Like the only answer, You're a
onequestiontinjed cert
of soothfeeling soothable soothing everything. Yet as the vast tinjofreedom
in an open question, You have ah.