“... who curls the obscene within himself like
ringlets of hair around a curling iron... It is the work
of a man who ate well – and this makes itself felt in
his writing.”

Bleached ringlets: vines over the
tympanum. Better to have his ears than none of him.
The bull, that is.
He, sitting there.
The pluck before us,
then head, then feet. At first, he had run from
us like a cow, and then, dashing like a bull,
anticipating the feast of his flesh, anticipating the
crack of the marksman, anticipating the ambush of spears,
anticipating the speeches of lovers, anticipating the chase of
between the fisherman and his myth, anticipating the maritime
Lemming Way, of the Cold Land, and the Pea. Bullock, Grampian horse,
a cutting of your mane, so that we needn’t send you off
to the real country again. Let us find a
real person, like a sandstorm, to transport your
various cuttings overseas.

Know that we love your viscera, even if it swells while we scoop. Horns. No
horns. Sometimes you are the final lamb, wary of us.
Be bovine, and we drink accompanied. To live as a cow presumes
five green pastures beyond the plain. Forget the
incorporeal an instant. Put your hands into your work.

We are desperately skinny. You are becoming skinnier. You are Beckett
of palm trees. You are Hokusai’s chicken feet. We can remove
the door facing the shogun because he will not be able
to look away from your work as the chicken does its,
your hand on it. The shogun watches,
eyes electric, as a servant irons his hair
into ringlets. How far from your post did you have
to move to pull the door off of its hinges? Two hundred
lines trickle from the princess’s mouth, a lover's lullaby
for the shogun however obscure it remains for us as
the artwork is produced. She loves her King Lear, however
many years she predates his production, and with another jolt,
postdates him, returning to sender, observing the colours of
cinema. And so she Ran from this, by Cure o’ Sour Breakfasts.

Bull returns to take it in the side, his udders swinging.
You're coming to know the name of every picador in the country.
I love how penetrating your chase of the matador is. Eventually.
The prettiest picture in the bloodied poster. You are gorged on,
witness to the feast that fattens them. And chewy! Tennō and Lear
are one. Honoured prize, congratulations! You are the exercises,
and the dance, and the erotic poems giving the princess will
to monologue, will to betray.

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