Itinerary of Ophelia [a story of overdetermination]
Cathy Eisenhower
it was
elsewhere first in else
mouth and else corpus and the laboring figure
of a sleeping lady and twitch
imperceptible not a typo but full-out
fucking synaptical dramatical hard and
small-screen
she troubles the (ophelia?)
location which troubles her back and
the odor requires a deepening
whiff of weffe or the drunk
wife's lumbago which signals the first
concern
caterwaul of origins
caterwaul dank in this
impeccable script of the plagiarist's
impeccable script
And then she reinstalled her teeth into the purchase of a moment longer she said she was saying that though the floating absence does affect every view of a world the TRO that's Temporary Restraining Order kept the flame high and hot for whose burning she burned herself in unconscious ritual in whorl of bracts surrounding inflorescence. she cannot keep this up the metathetic until producing excitement in her own genitals with aid of a matchstick with aid of a burning-glass she cannot turn during her flight information here is your flight information reinstalled in her teeth by way of magnetic north.
holding her red number on her lap the password temporarily slipping out and then in again she is spearing salmon by torchlight braining gulls and mumbling the password so as to keep it indiscrete. no fire is complete. the exhibit was stapled to billboard avenue for an instantaneous tour of her. she is burning the water an open mouth moth under the burning-glass hunting for trinkets under the coke machine and (get this) finding them. the thing is a property and all she says she had already said and keeps saying she cannot cannot cannot turn away from herself.
turning away from herself in an old dictionary it was a floater
turning it was insistent and
coughed something up to which
no acronym did justice
notwithstanding entertainment value in the
snack aisle the crispiness that
submerges boredom into the
foundry ruins the public
health alert cooping up bastions
of forgiveness in vials at 43 degrees why can't
everything react with that delicious
echo of the obdurately fragile
Miss Ophelia is a limiting Miss Ophelia is going to
read to you now accounting later she terribly waited under
trucking jarred into nuclear posturing, which what is it, which
icon grew so bitmappy it no longer resembling Miss
Ophelia whatsoever.
I certainly wish alphabetic could wear their political
maturity as cardiovascular outside the skin, the Joey
born with heart outside chest to keep
the mystery to a dull roar. Miss Ophelia clicks on
the twitching but the form letter is so
unoriginal there is everything of her about it
lest the signature box
do not repeat yourself
never insist
you will rest and
slap-dash think of it
take the pants off the Consumer practicing heroics in the checkout. the penis is garbled in distance reflective reflecting diurnal revolutions of. kismet. put it in the box because it is new and keep it there until you need it. the Consumer heroes around the unitarded scamperers they know exactly who they are imaginary points stacking to abstract pinnacles of portmanteau(s). the orange arrows indicate a certain spiciness electronic beeps do twitch the eyelid rash of a generation's hemhaw toward disrectitude and smack. the helicopter took the kid away and everyone in the bar turned maudlin meaning smoking meaning one more meaning the Consumer swiping such magnetic strips down the vagina biographical whirlwind brought to you by. I personally no don't even if Ophelia remembered to find me.
When my fantasy popped from the toaster it had been diverted and she had to start all over again to try to actually get to the sex part. Daydreams based on toast almost always lead to dry-humping and she said at least 4 times this morning, "I want a contactless orgasm." The red-tipped penis printed on thousands of bookmarks for children went unnoticed by pretty much everyone. To bust up the surface because it enrages her, too smeared up to reflect and increase the surface area through arbitrary violence is her platform. The heart is irrelevant in this--the skin's where it's at & I can understand in a sweet way why the serial killer makes the skin of his victims into jackets because I would want to be inside your skin. Her collection of evidence keeps growing: fingerprints, hairs, lipskin, receipts and addresses. Her archive is waiting in ziploc bags till the trial for the crime on which our life is based. She woke up again while her muscles "down there" clenched and clenched, and she was so happy.
Protruding nipples are not all ipso facto erect nipples not even with succotash blistering belly-tender thighs. Ice-age nipples crimped kernels of raw corn and 16th-century nipples dripping shmaltz and clandestine in the electrical fire not breast, not that song urging a general strike so we buy no lettuce nipples protruding fiercely at our enemies. The universe is the shape glandular. We inhabit a vast nipple which is protruding into our imaginary lack. Ophelia, the picket lines engorge my sense of myself as vulpine. You see I am very sad today despite the colostrum causing my hair to shine signals at the scabs to distract them.
the survivors there having
having eaten o-
phelia's chuckwagon
she kept
looking to the door
the fence-rattle of
santiago which floated
down after horses
breezed through the
airlift hoof-first
into
topographical
maps
based on a true story
the women with hard
lips and faces that remind one
of some
one other
line up to unleash
the detritus
from her
does were mean man? or wer? the metadata traps them in a lit caption and a fondness for catastrophe. she ignores she, she prelates fortune in its herbal connotations. i think this is trying scratching dirt miniaturing surface as bone/fragment charlestoned out as though a flapper could reveal where the heart is not and is only meat sighing. waving its tendrils. terrible. a thing tastes itself all day and the end is multiple/salvages atomic vistas and gauges the rancor by touch. this sensory contraption claps the werewomen into a fjord that for some reason purples out to the frivolous sea. they sense too much and think too little or vice versa. the subtlety has run off to poison the groundwater again, though they think we missed it last time.
"this is not
hell this
is not
imported thorns to protect the guiltiest from the guilty. his friend had the starring role next to ophelia. "all his stuff is a little stilted." gary is not gara he said but he would be in plant city fla. where the y requires little movement with the lips. I am confused about Santiago where ophelia studies radiology/x-rays crowded reversals of dog-packs never eating them. never thinking of.
eating them."
the line-up of giddyap werwomen turned to cannibalism in a flash and. turned back.
base for a true story of cannibals/survival/fucking & joyous sunsets
heed
kept it fluid you might
say heed
saved them from
themselves. saved us from them and you from me. this is based on a true story & ONE foreign word misspelled on a letter to the. it was official.
the musical version created a stir/a vibrant scene/a factory of discontent/a sense that the distance between engine failing/boy eating girl/frost forming on the many dead lips/applause applause. the women with weightless skin exes & ulcers bowed and ran off. I think that was ophelia. as though she had never drowned before.
kotowing to the senators becomes a result of the pickling procedures Ophelia has instated; granted, not understood, granted, not horrified, granted, not unrequited. the she-clump of cast-off frequencies, undivided crashing like a jet into the peak. a drip on the screen & scream of whom: does this count as falling? he red-rosed his way out of so many corners he was not alone either. as a fellow pilot you offend me. it can't be because someone thought it first and then you ate that/but it's been done before, just open your mouth and you always get it. it melts and is there.
the boys were going
to sing for
us but time is running out.
the girls huddled up in the style of water ballet. but enough.
ophelia the posse always pays tax on the green large Quantico spread she thinks is a white noise cootchie-coo. nose freckles/altoids/plant city (is there one in utah) and gratefulness as a way of life/and itching a form of torture or at least tortuous to blink off her hangover/as if the world cracked/eye deleting wrong verbs and air conditioner flatulence. karen carpenter's face in invisible hands but what is wrong with that? what is wrong at all? christ he doesn't think she's pretty anyway and never will even if he does now. flagrancy of the tunnel not hers, crying over the fingers that such click out i have to stop; now. the burning wall is not a metaphor nothing brushes by like unleashed furniture.
gagging never stops while the whiplashed werwomen congregate on a plate shifting/do you understand/scratch me scratch ear and finish/there underneath you see it?/the crouching boy caged cagey a miniature painted once too many freedoms and now it's too late going/now gnawing on the bars just beneath every surface him/scratch the itch with no apparent source/cause remarkable in the sane verity of what did we forge did we invent without passing on the signatures plaguing petitions that keep the man guessing/the signatures are all the same/the law cannot change our churning ink our underwear falling down onto the curb/the fur does burst uneventfully from pore and. roar.
you think dogs bark but werwoman cradle dreams in the newfangled hairwig
the static
porcupine of daze/crash prevalency of waiting
force of indistinction
you think dogs bark but where
women cradle dreams
is in their fangs which seven
temblating gouges forlorn
about the hospital
reason #1 is knowledge
free from loose hairs making us
crazy and delete the old
dictionary fraying and gaping.
what has not been done before. her fingernails (ophelia's) attract molecules of and the crepe paper snoring heads of criminals think they are husbands and fornicate successfully with ophelia. there is nothing that doesn't fit. she isn't fit to be so itchy which finds secrets at times unexpectedly. the wane grows and scars. it is always time to quit and time to begin. the foreword cramped in the water nut-shaped and leery of camaraderie. reason #1 is anything innocent. sleep but do it on something comfortable.
perpetual novice creeping through his viaduct ghastly a button hot in new york's palest suburb. there is a werwoman are and climbing the vast protozoa that is and sneeze does tower yowlingly back down the veneration or even love. which what creeping feeling feels the juttings with necessity with maybe merely desire for entertainment. enter. backspace. you feel your heart because it is electric and oceanic but so is a mouth hovering above the softness of genitalia. set of screwdrivers tiny/clap had noticed everything worthy of audible appreciation like a muse humming under the bushes.
"such apocryphal statements are safely made."
you stand on the stool and stick your face ear-deep in the hole and then let everyone else take their turn. the photos cheer up the deep ignorance a person has for itself and a word and another word. flat bright body shrunk on flat bright paper treating itself to a sunny acid bath. don't worry about posterity because it will never arrive and when it does we won't let it in. that emptiness delivered crack letters to the seņor wooing ophelia with minute facial gestures sucked the air out of the air even when her skin is full of wind and phonetic terror. someone told me the price of earnestness but from underwater the Os're too real to believe. anyway ophelia is keeping the photo and the chemical seething against her wooden breast lacking microscopes or chairs. the word wish comes to mind at times.