“… [{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!”

 

img_5767

 

But actually, right now, without breaking down

the language into the pieces and bits

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

in-

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.

 

img_5736

 

So do please fuck off, you[r] psycho-

[{i]ll}-

logical meanderings: I love the beautiful

C even when no longer she can love

me.

 

And I love the beautiful C to this extent: even

when now she’d claim

never to have

loved

me, I love her much the

m[awe] …

 

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