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He thinks she worships him; she loathes him; she’s fed up, food smack-
er, energy sucker, saggy-lobed fucker, cannot believe she married
this lummox and constantly secretes availability fluids—saliva and
sex fluids—she’s game, hot squirmer under champions, beaver a
blond mitten for freezing hands, wit like a raptor, he’s glum and
lopsided ad nauseam, he thinks she adores him because she comes
squealing and stir fries vegetables, dupe, idiot, everything he is
repulses, his very timbre the soul’s eraser, money and creme de
menthe, aphrodesial green, and the great broad hard meat of fin-
anciers, she would rather produce her pancreas than take the Co-
lonial Williamsburg vacation, predictability, boredom, death,
living room, kitchen, living room, kitchen, he’s fascinating on
politics and ancient philosophy, Socrates, Heraclitus, his ponder-
ous must-covered skull the antithesis of Cobalt leaping waves,
fantasizes untraceable poison or a highway mishap, living room,
kitchen, den, kitchen, life as palindrome, on one head two pro-
files facing inward smashing against themselves, well, as I said,
he thinks she loves him and that stainless appliances anchor
and secure wild urges in himself and her, a sharp gleaming cor-
ner like a granite palisade, and the stars twirl candid features,
the cat curls on the windowsill, the bed accepts what humans
give it, he bends to kiss her, repent, repent for the end is near.