Are they still withdrawing from the Middle Ages when Mozart writes? Is it still a festival, as with Bach? Or something else entirely? In Paris: "Why do you pace the halls like that?" And Mozart: "One must protect oneself. Westphalia is tenuous." And man jeers, wheezes, and sisses, hands windmilling about his breast. He cannot chuse but to.

And the love story unfolded like shit unfolds,
And he would say, "I love yer body, touch mine."
And then he'd reverse course, saying,
"It really pains me, Jane, that I'm gonna
Hafta live my life without you.
I think we woulda been pretty good together.
I'm in a funk, and yet the idea of emerging
From it seems that much more lackluster."
And the love story unfolded like shit unfolds,
—there are so many choices in the city—
"I'm sadder, deep down, than you because
I'm the one with the remnant of activation energy.
You just wait for some Other to carry you above—
Not a prince charming but an Otto Von Bismarck—,"
And she spat some bow-tie pasta coated in creamy pink salmon sauce
In his face and marched over to the bookshelf like lovers would.
Oh swell and flap like that,
No more than Barr bodies of your basic embryology,
Complex architecture of descended gubernacula,
—I love him even more even as he excites me less and less...
But I still love flesh,
Embraced by Furioso,
My entire body like a teething child biting down on grapes,
Like tired hands ripping dirty water from a sponge,
Does it have to be you, a milquetoast member
of an otherwise exceptional species?
I very much don't approve of the way I am feeling.

I whelmed my self within the park today,
And imagined the statues rising to stone me,
Then pictured dead angels on beds that were thinning,
With fishhooks in their navels
And the cool tidings of sufficient reason
In their hearts; and I imagined some theatrical maneuver
In which the angels were lifted,
Like limp tents,
To the New World ceiling.
They were not anguished
Nor was I frightened.
Simply napkins rising in an atmosphere,