a poem for today, 11 November 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of eight sentences and its image]
We agreed; softly softly monkey monkey.
Let it go.
I want to fondle and probe it, breathe on it.
You feel you owe something, or you're afraid of being alone, and so you "work" at your relationship, like a prisoner in Siberia ice-picking away at the erotic permafrost.
It stinks.
The word got greased.
Infinitists endorse the regress as well, but argue that the regress is not vicious and hence does not show that justification is impossible.
It's a collective effort of disgustingness.
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