From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin is right,
That decadence is a discardable concept,
But wanting is not believing,
Except for those
Whose passionate intensity
Rivals anything Yeats surveyed,
Though this time unashamed of sheer stupidity:
First time as tragedy, second as Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that decadence is a disposable term,
but wanting is not believing,
except for people
whose passionate intensity
rivals anything Yeats encountered,
though now unashamed of sheer stupidity:
first time, tragedy; second time, Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting is not believing,
except for the people
whose “passionate intensity”
exceeds anything Yeats encountered,
undeterred by shame or residual intelligence:
first time as tragedy; second time, Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for this folk.
Their “passionate intensity,”
eclipsing what Yeats feared, allows no
shame or residual intelligence to slow it down:
1º tragedy, 2º Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for you know whom,
their “passionate intensity”
eclipsing what Yeats feared with no
shame or residual intellect to slow it down:
cardinal tragedy, ordinal Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for you know whom,
their “passionate intensity” having
surpassed what Yeats feared and having done so
without shame or residual intellect to slow it down:
Cardinal Tragedy, order some Flarf.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for you know whom,
their “passionate intensity” having
surpassed what Yeats feared.
They’ve got no shame or intellect to slow them down.
Their thighs are thick but quick.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for you know whom,
their “passionate intensity” having
surpassed what Yeats feared.
They’ve got no shintellect to slow them down.
Their thighs are thick and quick.
From orange to white.
I want to believe that Benjamin was right,
that we can dispense with decadence.
But wanting’s not believing,
except for you know whom,
their “passionate intensity” having
surpassed what Yeats feared.
They’ve got no shintellect to slow them down.
Their thighs quith.