Notes on Baudelaire (5)

(((18))) there have been few calls for the realization of poetry lately, and much less philosophy. peculiar, because we still spend our nights hunting for potential parasites within our direct reference body. to talk 'me' is redundancy, yet it is still events that we are inside //// air-dropped by modern poetry. what would its realization actually feel like ::::: would it be fortified like marriage, or lifestyle, ringing with moveable lips. most of it is kept in boxes, as if 'it' and 'love' were semi-detachable units proving capitalism has not spread into all the cracks, particularly those called 'I': or a letter from 'e' to an image of 'e' still in the text. like this projected brick. my name will never appear on their shameful registers //// insert mandatory class struggle slogan here. &&& mean it. everyone in cambridge is dead. in any case, the cracks are surrounded by bistable multi-border guards:: prosodically vibrating with boredom. there is a box called poetry, so stop paying rent. drink pink metal, heated.

(((19))) --- & take ‘thought cancer’ as ‘die soon’ from within the more tedious senses, worship (for example): become any letter, an alphabet item scratched history:::: to smirk, but screamed. nothing less has polite importance /// poetry-shaped motherfuckers with static deep systems, blisters on top of the sky’s culture logic.