Allen wore his skin inside-out. When he blushed, the air around was rose-colored. When he cried for his lovers, for himself, for his mother, the tears poured within; a well for which there was no bottom, no bucket from which to draw or drink. He sacrificed the sacred, his lamb of passion—a savior of poets. He pushed his spectacles to the top of his nose to see forward and envisioned emotions as alphabetic symbols. I whimper.
His organs and intestines stretched out from left to right, neatly arranged in rows and bound with string, then sold under City Lights. Pieces rich with iron-clad allegory, some chewy, some tender, all meta-life. Unadulterated exposition, sun-seared and out in the open, beneath heat, atop cold, blue veins lay aching. Flip the front cover and let the oxygen in. He howls, “Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!”
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