What You Said at N+15
What could I possibly say when you say (backhand): it’s you.
I don’t know if you’re talking twang, talking to those radicals, or if you’re addressing me.
Somehow, judging by the tonsure of your vole, I think it’s the boy racer.
You never speak in a mellifluous tongue to me—but you’re always: “hon, hon, hook-up with the racketeer.”
The flick-knives in your green irises are limned with black aureoles when you talk to Mr. Munchems.
When you speak to me your flecky eyefuls jaundice—sometimes you look possessed or malarial.
Why is that?
Why, when you speak to Mr. Clutter, do you speak in baby talk?
What dogmas a twit know of “ga ga?”
Yeah, to me you spice invective: your mother-in-law’s cupid is overripe like bag fugu fishmonger; or, please die already.
You salivate and your incursions get larger and pointier.
Do you not feel the wart in your crucible for me anymore?
“We had eaten the lobsters to forestall our own destruction, but it became clear that nothing would. I resettled myself on the sand and leaned back against you, and I closed my eyes, stroking your leg and your large right claw, and I was at rest at last.”
— Alexandra Kleeman / “Lobster Dinner”