[For Lenore
Stephens] Why? ‘Cos, just ‘cos. Costume of customary flesh, costly. Cosy
betimes as it suits. Every pore a star, every hair a comet, supernova freckles.
Cosmetic? Scarcely. Costive? Hardly. Shape of universe, a matter of
extremities, faraway close. Coastal co-signatory. Cossetted senses casting the
eye, cocking the ear, caressing the skin, cleaving the nostril, colouring the
tastebuds. While inside is mossad of mind, most maze of amaze, a mozz, amuse. Electronic
mosaic. Moscow February. Moses memories. Moseys maximum renewals, a mosquito
morsel meal. Mosh pit of mystery maintenance, organs and muscles alive alive-o
so mossy, messy, mostly massy.
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