Your Ardor Kathleen Ossip To dream of your ardor is much joy and much happiness. Your ardor tells me that I am making a mistake by not taking hold of what is offered to me. What I mean when I say “your ardor” is stenciled on the air that surrounds your big face. The force of your ardor pushes strangely. All that matters now is your ardor. It solves a most formidable equation. How old is your ardor? I think it was born when it met me. You should heed your ardor. It will scoop you out, little melon: Your ardor as good as its master Your ardor tomorrow and your ardor yesterday Your ardor in January Your ardor dripping sharp as vinegar Your ardor dripping pale as ashes Your ardor with its quick reply Your ardor and your hot hard argument Your ardor with a hatchet Your ardor Your ardor drinking and talking Your ardor local and authentic Your ardor of lost fame Your ardor that hits the button and initiates Your ardor stronger than your pride Your ardor in squalor Your ardor that squeaks Your ardor that spends and spends Your pen is my lure. Your ardor my wire. The night your ardor first beset me I cried “Zyer! Oh, zyer!” Who cares what I meant. I don’t retain facts. We hate facts, don’t we, they never did a thing for us. Behind the screen of your ardor lies the globe of the Earth above which the eagle can be seen soaring up toward the sun, which has my face. It grins high in the purple sky. On either side stand two allegorical figures, the Way of Virtue and the Way of Vice. Your ardor comes on like a pun, making the most of all possible significances. Your ardor so close now to my ardor. Our ardors twitch, so sensitive to control. I just want your ardor to have fun in there! What next, what next, oh ardors? Here it is. Here’s what we call the Red Spot.
Posted on: Fri, 02 Jan 2015 19:34:01 +0000
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