sCULLERY-cLOTH7*
Crappy dementia, thieves one of a proper burial, a last kick at the ontological can. Who am I, was I, will I be, I? Is this the end, the abruption of sensate thought, notions and commotions of thoughts and brainwaves, brainchild, thoughts gone haywire like pabulum? Red River cereal, farina, semolina with wisps of brown sugar, emmer black, cane sugar and rutabaga, a bland no-nothing on the croup of the tongue. Cogito Eros Summa, a slight rousting in the fob of my trousers, where Jockstrap meets Leda, thumbprints left, indented, by a washerwoman’s scullery cloth: fucking Cartesian no-nonsense, too much wax and bedstead Oryx, not enough uncommon sense and Paddy’s allsorts, Rye Whiskey without the after-bite or halter, a pleasant coition of ligulas and tooth cavity
Crappy dementia, thieves one of a proper burial, a last kick at the ontological can. Who am I, was I, will I be, I? Is this the end, the abruption of sensate thought, notions and commotions of thoughts and brainwaves, brainchild, thoughts gone haywire like pabulum? Red River cereal, farina, semolina with wisps of brown sugar, emmer black, cane sugar and rutabaga, a bland no-nothing on the croup of the tongue. Cogito Eros Summa, a slight rousting in the fob of my trousers, where Jockstrap meets Leda, thumbprints left, indented, by a washerwoman’s scullery cloth: fucking Cartesian no-nonsense, too much wax and bedstead Oryx, not enough uncommon sense and Paddy’s allsorts, Rye Whiskey without the after-bite or halter, a pleasant coition of ligulas and tooth cavity 