Of our love

Some people build children to monument their affection…

As For The Rest

As you age, childless, the legacy bug tugs at your nuptials

You need to do something or else.
Or else when death comes then what then who will know
/ who will have known?

When your death comes and nothing changes, then you’ll have to face that you weren’t worth a damn thing, except you won’t because you’ll be dead (real dead) and unable to be unwilling to do even that.

NOTE: Even if you do manage to make something of yourself, eventually the sun will die and all of that will be lost forever anyways.

Of our love there should be some proof.
Or else what did we spend all this time doing?
What did we invent all this effort for, invest all this effort towards:
Only through proving your self over and constantly over
will you stop ceasing to exist, however momentarily

Absolutely, the moment is the unit by which we live and die the truest.
Actual sadness, when felt, occurs only in the moment.
Everything else is reference, shadow.

Of course, we all know, later:

Alt. argument – actual sadness, when actually felt, occurs only upon reflection. In the moment nothing hurts, just changes. Change that once calculated adds up to more than a dollar. (To put it violently) it’s not the bullet that kills you but the hole.

And sticking your finger through that hole, you think if only and:

Of our love there should have been some proof, you figure, mistaking the mechanism for the motions.
Of our love a living record, an indefinity.

Of our love a monument,
some entirely inadequate alternative to genetic success



a hospital bed that measures, collects the size of it

Cancer or car crash– what will lay your love here?

an origami recreation of the opening of Japan feat. your self-origami-portrait as Commodore Matthew Perry (your spouse as fireworks– each one of them = his/her face)

This is what you look like on the inside; this is how you'll be |remembered|

 this remodeled kitchen plus finished basement turned rumpus room.


Mission Accomplished

Well, room would be more accurate, as there’s not much in the way of rumpusing going on (except for when your nieces and nephews visit).

Don't worry - the Iron Man poster is en route

 a prolific and voracious sex life; voluminous escapades
like an epic tale by bardsmouth told
in debt to all the depths you’ve plumbed
as the sea is to Odysseus so are you to orificeses(eses)eses

OH NO WAIT: Orifeus

"Now ladies-- no need to fight, my grief is plenty voluminous for you ALL to consoalaaauhgh"

 like vaginal tightness, but go the other way with it: maintained dick thickness

Now e’eryone knows that a good way to make women feel implicated by their own dumb sexual activity is to tie their participation in it to a theoretically quantifiable (but never evidenced) decrease in their capacity to squeeze dicks, aka Baggy Vagina Syndrome (or BVS). But hear this, you pieces of shit. You Princes of Shit, You Kings of Also Shit. Each time a man scrambles eggs his sausage shrinks.

Nanometers per thrust– and jerking off counts too– over time you’re So Skinny

 a boat called Shelf Interest – like you’re aware of what you’re doing, but have also called your shot vis a vis capsizing this thing on a sandbar

It's like a metaphor for how you will be foisted on your barely masked shallows and everyone will see it coming especially you

so many affairs!

 go to the trophy store and have them make you a trophy, either the biggest or the smallest that they provide. On the trophy in gold plastic graven images of you and your spouse watching tv and the placard part says “Totally Worth It” or “Every Single Moment” or both

Or just eat cupcakes until you die.


“1st Place [:line one/line two:] This This This This This”


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