I am reading a book about an obsessive man. (he’s reading one about her and waiting for the suck) He is obsessed with exclusion of memories and time. (she’s wishing he’d pull out the gun, metaphor, brass knuckles, allegorical significance) He is obsessed with secret lovers and dead ends. (she’s baiting him with panties and roast beef) I am watching this man go crazy on crisp pages. (he’s gone blind with furry palms and smiles) He is mad with jealousy and imposed doubt. (she’s bled every limb of his sleeping body with leeches) He is mad at her beauty; he makes excuses for infidelities. (she is fucking the innuendos he leaves on his plate) I am listening to his incessant mind percolate conjecture. (you don’t even hear the ruby lipped slappage) He is light on listening. (I am raw and glistening) and heavy on barbed words. (and barbed on waiting) He rushes through life head down and eyes front. (She has the lead foot on cruise control) I am seeing my face on his face, my body inside his body.  (You are projecting the 8mm broken reel from the beginning of the film) We are one and the same. (You’re not in the frame)

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