Ah, my extravagancies, my idle set of fingers, how my flesh plumes and puckers—I fume and speak inscrutably from all my several holes. Gathering new flesh up at my sides, staving off that day—making weight to stay fricting at the ground—that day ahead, and the simple suck that comes from it—oh, that yawning gap of trouble.
Ornament, to me! Neckbreaker rococo—smother my starknesses in panoramas of idle love—pour gravy to stink in this rigged hutch of bone—make flames stream from tallowed patches, rubbed onto chalken caves. My excess prospers in flabby crystals, casing my throbbing parts—I prosper pulsing, perspiring, thriving, yes, and I am staving off that day!
-2002
