Variations cost a lot in Marxist base alignments and bike gear.

Variation or vacation. Tone deaf or dead.

I can’t tell anyone except you I’ve misplaced my stencil and my Prince Phillip paintbrush & palette.

The ballast is in season. My peers make movies and fast food.

So there’s no poetry but in California. That’s since the love dataset appreciates and values only the blessed as the parcels it celebrates in distortions of consciousness, in every word, and all syllables performing as in one spin of the ‘compass’ between you and the others trained in your language.

That reminds me this is a new piece from the workshop. It just keeps getting bigger. A simple turn of the ignition, what's the big deal? A journey within the 5th element, a pathless scrubland back in the bend in time when you’re reading the data in an identical manner & you derive the same message (sorry, there’s another gap) as sugar consumption skyrockets, looking for something to do with a degree in hypostatization.

Nearly hurling was an adventure. That’s when Larry Cucumber met his match in the perseverance maze. Patti was trying to spook him with big hanging wolf eyes. It’s affordable theater. Her shirt was on inside out, on the tugboat to the Keys.

Hand-me-downs are not deconstruction.

So this is an edit. Rent v. purchase. Own v. release.

Color had risen to his cheeks. “I want us to be in charge.”

For a moment I stared at the door. Seconds later I was reconnected.

Would you like to ask questions or can I diagram the problem?

I came here dying for sublime play like the first time, and it’s entirely because it's unexpected he had his languid hands up in the air, made eyeglasses with his fingers, meaning he was ready.

Free days are an ellipsis, what goes around comes gasping, the more irregular the breathing — looks like he’s breathing! A spoon worm lives inside the womb, a male redback dies inside the reproductive tract! somersaulting into his mates' fangs just to get eaten while copulating!

D is still a little wiped. So is D-2. D-3 is frowning, ready to be seen. D-2 is blabbing. D is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing now is not to get fucked up too often.

It's what she said.

The traitor’s bags are packed.

Mustache color or toxic gloom?

Architecturally, you’re my business.

Talent and beauty come to power in their own right, but it's difficult to conceive of them taking anything like their ‘full effect’ without an attachment to addictive capital.

It’s important to remember Lacan was reading Lacan in the first grade.

An unnamed aroma, an olive swelter to feel the tap from mañana, the idea of sex is to shoot your own apples — that’s as close as you have to lush, too-ennobling pulse.

And it’s brave to think about high art favorably, even tho it bothers some to think that anything high can be programmed. Some have a fiercely vandal-like impression of reality. One large egg yolk, 1/2 cup sugar, 3/4 cup Marsala. A solitary genius.

What kind of man lives off oil from the ground?

How was it to record the soundtrack for a sequel that still hasn’t been made? You and the other investors might get offended.

You want an open marriage.

I am thrown into an absolute — take a wild guess. Piles of cash stuffed inside holes carved out of the Earth, stacking up against one another with such speed they reflect the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches I don’t care about.

Oh my god — I just remembered I can fly.

Well, most of the “songs” are literal, based on trying to sit down and go [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

Such Gothic dislocations are unexpected at the gym site. Is it documentary or fiction?

The air of inevitability around the code of which you speak has been shattered. It’s inauthentic in the first mustache sense.

I kiss the air. This.

And it’s not clear you and I want to answer any more questions that require specific, distinctive thought like that I think of a welding head, until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

Dennis Cooper reads from The Marbled Swarm in an interview with Michael Silverblatt for NPR’s Bookworm. Silverblatt reveres Cooper’s newest narrator as a ‘gourmet cannibal’ whose affect / effect is to use language to hide objects, a use that operates as ‘a sleeve or a condom you put over language so you are protected from what’s being said.’ The title The Marbled Swarm in one sense refers to a family’s complex idiolect “spoken at a taxing pace” and in another it underpins a fundamental substitution for an indefinable reality, through which “...one’s speech becomes an entity...” (Additional Bookworm interviews with Peter Gizzi, W.S. Merwin, Ann Beattie, and others onsite in the sidebar.)

Sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive. A thousand and one nights. Little river hotglass. The poke boats. George Balanchine.

Bellwethers and fey bloodhounds are the sub-jazz. Suicide in the instant is a big wheel.

Barter is potential order in another wedding gown. Then this is now. A domain for reptiles and their suppliers. Fat lips, usually wet. Brainy ellipsis to a turn.

It was becoming day for the night. (Couples are not the perk here.) Calvin, Stephen, John. We did one thing in complete metonymy. Everything bristled.

At times coming to tatters the town is crawling with pet shops that are erotic and circumspect. (I’m just beginning to explore them.) Their symbolism weighs in as a shortcut: The future of the past is directional.

I need me. It’s a lovely trade.

This is my deciding moment. As a consequence doors open, and I’m auto-electrocuted.

And that’s good, because I sneaked rather than snuck across the catalysts. (It’s what I’m good at while I’m wearing hand-shadow pajamas.)

All thus was in the meantime. So you detect I’m pretending to be an asshole, at your behest, intimidating death.

This is one moment with one momentum to change any episode into dissipation until every exchange comes down to a piece of work and only a style prevails. The resolve to go from there is that all our jobs be weaponized.

When I read you I thought something is pouring out like disco supplementation. Sun passeth zenith. Your house is close plywood boards in Creeps Meadow.

The journey home feels made up so I can live by myself without being alone. Like that trip to Vegas.

Re-reading you I sense loose projectiles “got thrown” into doo (implicative space). And then the microwaving began, humorless and crazily unironic.

I read you and people moved away, making it vacant.

Once again it’s that time of the month to explain the cosmos, parts one and two. On top of that there are dimensions then enabling infinite events in a plot we’re party to, multiple choice.

First question of the year, true or false. Is it its gaze or its maleness?

The more you put your finger on it it’s a retrospective that you and I may now never attain.

So you never know there’s an animal that needs you.

And I should know.

Someday the male coloration returns as a she-container with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more adhesive behavior, more speech and extra sensory anger.

Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

Time’s up.

I have to guide this crone back to reality, a big girl with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive! I don’t know when I slept (I’m referring to that earlier point she and I worked this out together).

We won’t sideswipe any maples and pines. My role is to fill them in, lengthening their insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I like zoning.

If I had a camera with retouch I’d subsist in our attrition to find and weed out pleasure. And if I added notes to video I’d capture the “you” and “me” of this and any unclenched feelings I have composing footage I can’t pinpoint, a shore in blues and stock blacks pitched way up with infectious provisos, integers-to-be, and no part to fix.