“… [{cate]r}[g(or)y] / (the beautiful C) / much the m(awe) …”

When are is the [r]eason they don’t understand you,

and be is the [b]urden of a life only catered to,

and when nothing you k[n]ow is more than an ouch on

the road to a p[lace] of no-go, that lingeried fi[r]e of

uncommon [requiring]:

and all you ever wanted was to lo[ve t]he [arms] of s[ome]

w[o]man around you: around the being you [b]e-

ed, once and before you lost the [l]ivelihood of childhood

and all that other stuff which had kept the flames of [f]eeling

and [f]ucking, and [duck]ing the delicious woman

you’d fallen del[ish] in love with last summer – or was

it simply what [psycho]logist[s] call a c[rush]?  “Noth[in]g

very real, my p[oor] fri[end] – if anything, just a

naked de[sire] f[or] lustful [bust]ful bush!”




But actually, right now, without breaking down

the language into the pieces and bits

you always seem to p[refer!], you begin –


stead! – as prairied house of

little foundation, to reconstruct the

reality as the reality really was: and she did

really feel for you, and the

feelings you still feel for her, you really do still

feel for her, as then you really felt.




So do please fuck off, you[r] psycho-


logical meanderings: I love the beautiful

C even when no longer she can love



And I love the beautiful C to this extent: even

when now she’d claim

never to have


me, I love her much the

m[awe] …


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