These mere dalliances, thoughts thought without regard for proper grammar, syntax or sentence structure. I will have none of it, none whatsoever. I am it; I am the dalliance, the mere thought of thinking, the fracturing off that results in less structure and further dalliance, a flirtation with word and text. All is mere appearance, simulacrum of appearance, ghosts and spectres, jimmying and gerrymandering without a coattail to hang onto or a shirt-sleeve to fold up. Phenomena gone bad, seen from the wrong angle, from the inside out; seen from within the imaginary appearance of things seen but not seen, the unseeable. Oh so Becketty, you say, you hotrods and quinces, you better-thanes and, by all appearances, come what titter’s. Diogenes was a spoil sport, knee crooked beneath elm and oakweek, casting aspersions upon whomever would stop long enough to be caught standing long enough, so it goes, one long antecedent chain of nonsense and blither. Fuck it (Regenstein) but I’m all tuckered out, spent like a sulphur match struck against a wooden leg scrabbled across hot steaming asphalt, a mirage of heat sores and syphilitic wanes, or so they say, they who are the imaginary other to your you and me. It’s all in the appearances, mere dalliances and bad syntax.
