Date: Thu, 14 Jan 1999 02:05:40 -0500 (EST)
From: CD <cw_duff-AT-alcor.concordia.ca>
Subject: Pack /altered 



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	Mona had a pack and was partially western and partially organs.
Partially a pack of cigarettes when she and Franny first took the Western
gates and splashed through the horn. The horn of plenty and spilling
theory all over her knees of lover, and would be lover. There was night,
there was knight, there was day, there was dayadhvam. There was the pack
of night and day and transferring transfers betweeen institutional
super-egos interiorized which broke her body bodies and coming. Here was
there and there was Waste galore of her pinched heart eye bows. and arrows
of hunger expletive dead lover pain  .

	No  .

	A Fragment lover pai

		n .

	There was a pack of tarot and slinging mud and her only begotten
lover and the sonnets she wished to mend him in her sooth. And so it was
on the 498th gene and night of their love. There was Orpheus splitting the
atom too. The molecule of some harp thrown off the space calendar of his
movable  feast. His ossuarry of funeral parlours and the masked face which
could not been seen, could not be found.
	Doctor, Doctor. I am the jailor of your self. and My knee high
lie.

	There was  a pack of suicide and bodies diverged in the exotic
territories. There was thee and thou and pronouns and slammed hearts in
half dead bodies near middle age with packs of cigarettes which killed
the ointment of desire, or at least soothed it. There was her univocal
vocal cords near the woman that loved, there was "I" loved un loved
uncomposed and there was cold and 28 below without a lover. So Mona saw
the Bible (and its belt) in her sun. And her ORpheus was her plenty of
lover, packs of words spilling strewing, slagging from his mouth. And
there was the hips and folding thighs of his lover. Her self in the mouth
of the south of  her crowd of hands and ass and cock genital guns and dead
comes which never wasted anything that close to liberty but libertinage
and bad Victorian woman poets which one was forced to read by the lyre of
dead academic forces fuelled by resentiment not ascendance. Where was the
sickle moon of Islam when one needed she said. He was the night of her
accordian and day and she was the mother of his breathing,
and the some hands found in the distant city metropolis.

	A pack of sing song singers in the silence of the dew, and the
death rain knot. She was not in his heart of (heated hearts like deranged
fuels and tresses), hearts and the salamander leap andher lap of dead skin
was the Hypoborean lather of her pelt. She was the borrowed body of his
jewel. That he lost when he was her she-ing down the sexes of her path.
And which does not mean that path which was born of the psyche of
hunger. And his hunger lips past her thighs in the scream. She was jealous
because Night was his Mother, she thought biography could be seen in
his word star road. And then the there of the absract hit jewel eye
back and he was the one she shored past in the tumbrel oftheir
meeting. And he his head lopped off in the day time gone. He was a singer
poet in the band desire links fell off the multiplcity she sought. In his
hunger veined high past the brown beat trail of her lonely motherless
sigh.

	All packed in the veins of her plural self rides around the citied
circle death cry. And no one knew him in his high cry schizo mute.

	and the circle of his look back vein was the call in Eurydice the
night of his lonely city call


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	Clifford Duffy - from the prose poem ORpheus et al.