I wanted the gigando set in this corner here,
the 36 incher under the row of cornapples
hung just as the greasy greasy grannies done.

What he had said came back to him.
Sectioned seat, sectioned seat.
The lift caught wind and swayed him in.

Gentlest hull of bond, tendons that bear
to work a gait, sentiment that brought you here:
at the window in the dark, speaking tongues

So I’ll speak ill of the dead. A was crooked,
planting the small left finger of the raccoon in the upholstery
before he sold the car. B made certain to point out Celia’s

Damn it Graw you’ve got the sponge
on the wrong side of the ketchup bottle.
Have not shithead. And thus we drift

This is the repugnant part, where now
you covet the loss which a moment before
brought you the severed torso in the dream.