Umbrellas Unopent in Tempests, Part VIII

Itwethey says bride bidden fresh through incorporeal bite be bedded embedded overbite just as fresh though Itwethey has asked guest (guest? Bride? Without inviting or indenting or intending it, Itwethey has invited, indented, and intended guest to merge with bride, guest-bride!)(wills Itwethey, itwehey! Guest-bride-X. “X” understood as varaiblesque, to be equated without variablesque unto arabest arabewque, Itwethey will be repelled if antiquated or adequated into grotesque, though Itwethey knows self as gargoyled framed in sky between earth and sky between sacral-illiac, mons-pubis and morte-public, or gulf-clean and gulf-BP,) Itwethey, standing inside, before threshold, lusts into guest-bride, precariously waiting (but we thought Itwethey only waits?) on stoop, stoop of herring and anchovy.

Dark bitter bite, bidden in beer violent and yet Itwethey says gentle, gentle as gentile genitalia, sensitive, given to over-excitation, relishing every taciturn turn of screw in screw, given and relishing makeshift lean-to in makeshift forest (forest as refuge from the makeshift, the mandigomanmade, from artifice, we must see, somewhere’s along this path, this way,) nutrition is state-feed. Diet is what bureaucrat puts into mouth (not of river, but of sewer, going in equals coming out, and nothing is coming and/or going.)

Bride on threshold says to fleeting past, rushing away, suddenly regretted, in roar of water (of time, for time’s rush is as magnificent) that sparkling time holds in its thresh this bride, this embrace, this native holder of reflection, though grey, though cold, though northern, though holding function, though of seed and of chaff it says to bride: your chaff I want to chafe me because that’s the sexy part, the part I love, and bride isn’t replete of your dynamo, though beloved, in so many media.

A little love bite. That’s the way guest walked onto path. A bite of a tasty worm. Path was like worm. Itwethey had felt so many shames, and yet tasty worm was not on Itwethey’s radar. It was, rather, what Itwethey included amongst Itwethey’s treasure chest of allures, a rare blessing, a night of jars held ajar that day again begin: guest, your neck, your you silent as a red-eye, est like lightning, is is lightning withheld from grammar, a little think in a night sky I saw your swan neck bite allure in fathomless confined green-blue I can’t reflect your color without my color night dream (threshold the cream) color.