THE FIFTH FOLIO: PRODUCTION NOTES
A promenade for open negligee: Tossed sheets stripped to position. A body awake, torn or the tuck of a nub. Rub head. Pinch top of head. The rubbed raw surface. Connect spots and follow the drip-hole. Blood or frozen muck in the filth.
Dear, blood-fire: your bed fidgets in a smudge of slurs and trembling pink sheets. To no avail, no honey in the sap. I’m below the orgone light: flick and a snap, that distant glow of utensils.
Frame it all: skewed peddler, traces, villainous on thigh tweaks; ashtrays scraped raw; lotions or lines, slipped off, tugged-down shorts.
Use rope, rubber bands, oil, slugs, and glue, soap to scrub off the slip, a cloth to dab. But she prefers a groan, flirting dreams over blips. We accept or abstain under certain conditions set forth by the circumstances outlined above. She signs the contract: no brooding or basking, no holographic triangulation, no spasmodic triage and please don't forget to initial here. The ink is a hot smear. It stains.
No more slip in the milk. Nothing but cotton, pearl studded lashes, strands of hair and a dress. Silent gurgles.Lick wounds, love gummy: navel, inner horizon, strawberry, rose, chalky cheeks, nobby, peak of the nose, tickle neck, earlobe, pit, around the waist, knees open, rub forehead, and spine clicks to straight. No part remains.
A dry whimper: sigh of evaporation. Flutter behind a chamber door and cut, bravo, slice the words, the stock film and cue: one to zero. Lights out, a dissolve, our traces lapping at the resonance of a stranger’s skin. No sheets, just a smell and then gone.