“I just feel transsexualized by this vermin.” Bend the fecal out of despair. Upend the skyless and then words get drawn out, melody of silence played on brick accordion and then layered fathomly. Ford a finger. Here comes ol’ fingerfoot, limb in the lungs. Don’t give it an oven; the wood is a child. Why the leaning breath of striation. Everything the city breaks us is a chill. Bottom into the back the turd ribcave leans lustily towards gravity, eat a meal a day keep distinction away. That foot’s not walking. The finger is split down the animus, real need of movement to make up for the silence and what can we find. Bound to extension, horny bored noun. Let it only be the fat of juiceless living that glides down the it’s molten isness. We speak like sticks beside us in the gloating. Some know the secrets and secretions of each dimension. Drawn down into crunching magnet spells of time. This tongue, cast over the bricks, not one of yearning. No monument sculptural, no sculpture momentous. We have to re-invent feeling first.