Am making out w/ a whopper, man // surrendering currency as we peak
City, O city, laden w/ maidens, assorted poultry, pow/wow/er
if Wyclef really izzzzzz his name COMING in gold
FOR LEASE on the Rhine -my city keys pointing me, deftly pointing
me COVER ME bro I’m coming to
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The error is lonely and singing.
The beginning of a thing is its error. It speaks of “insinuendos” & “elbow people” & “side voices” of being “botanized.”
& too close. The error is often on top of what it gets wrong.
& flat yes flat, a morbid geometrism. It hopelessly renders a glass of water with another glass of water.
It’s a kinship you can identify, a structural filament, a system, a belief. There is some lint or dirt on it there.
The error is the point in the room you are everywhere looking at. It is not a pipe. It does not count on you to misunderstand it. It is so imbued with itself.
The error does not flow. It is a river of cubes. It repeats the same way without meaning the same thing. It stops only when whatever contains it finishes, like a sentence.
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