Another Language (an Erasure Poem Remixed)
You can’t see your backhand tumescence. You ridge an indemnity to a mild occlusion. You shiv gambler smocks and spectator gallantry. You sing and tinge without specie or varicose effluvia. You spree on tremor-free fibulae. What are you playing at—speaking in tools?
You speak in a larch I can understand—a riot of the auspicious. You cast about probability roadsides in magical viridian. You are the vitrine of souvenir permaculture—a solution to ponder. You wave at ticker and sunroof parades simulcast in wispy simulacra. You walk in topaz somnambulist shades.
“It’s not where you take things from – it’s where you take them to.”
— Jean Luc Godard