poem: venus in a dirty bedroom

why is it so hard to sit down & work! but the logician goes mad faster than the poet,
the logician wants to fit heaven into his head. i believe i read that on twitter, sitting also
in a cafe in tight yoga pants. and my cute little ass! can you really call me
an incel with an ass this cute. also if you ripped me apart, i would — disavow all this, &
conform suddenly and radically — i would make bread with my face in the kitchen and
you, returning from work, would eat my reflection. the long shadowed gable, the golden
light on the vines — do you want to hear my dream last night? — the golden light as they go
maniac, fast frantic medieval sex in the mud and she stands up, wrings out her dress
in the water and returns to her father. and he dreams of her seashell, the beach and the ocean
and the harbor wedged perfectly between her legs. and you think you can stimulate all this
at the gym! and you think your bitcoin trading is like going to war! and you want to impress
me, the muse/the maiden/the desperate, with your call of duty kills — please, i am begging you,
kill a man in the flesh rip out his heart with your teeth and bring me your bloody sword i will
lick it clean. why is it so hard to read a book! to finish a poem! and you sleep until one p.m. and
then drown in the bathroom with lana del ray. i am in the kitchen making instant oatmeal i can
hear you screaming/the lurching rising water — but what could i possibly do to help. and i
believe ivan karamavoz will wake up and fall in love with the angel hanging over his bed. and i
will go the same cafe and you will not speak to me. 4s are people you avoid making eye contact
with lest they fixate on you. and i went mad! maniac! to the vorrei spiegarvi, oh Dio, K. 418. you will
find me having sex in the mud! you cannot — cannot! — save me!

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