the alley flowers bloom for every drunk who pisses on them save for me

there are women built by sentences.

there are women built by the sentences of preschool illiterates; subject/verb, present tense with nothing more--- incapable of anything more. they are the bare bones of anorexia dreams where shoulder blades have more prominence than tits which makes sex a guessing game: which end goes up again? they're interchangeable – subject/verb or verb/subject – right? it doesn't matter.

there are women built by the sentences of Kant; two thousand words per sentence held together with six hundred commas. they are women of corpulence – of aesthetic-less plaid striped shirts – of clumsiness without a foundation--- two thousand words trying to stand on feet that fit within a size two shoe.

there are women built by the sentences of almost Germans; women built by the sentences of Kafka--- buxom beauties with the forgotten elegance of dreams sliding away thru peripheral sight upon waking. if you can entice them to stay then they will stay objects of longing, watched for hours over asylumed mess hall meals and absinth aperitifs. watched until they stand and excuse themselves to piss or menstruate and then it is seen as they walk away: they have no ending worth mentioning, they have no ass. they are women without glucose or muscle. they are a paper page plane with that black dot – that period – that asshole that ends beauty so poorly.

there are women built by the French as well; women built by the sentences of Camus. simple, almost attractive whores with little tits that should be sensitive but twist them as tho you were trying to break a pocket watch and they will not make a sound. they will never admit they feel anything but absurd passion for their absurd lives they do not even like; but they will be intriguing. tied to your headboard they say things you would prefer not to know and you ravage every overused orifice but it will not stop them from saying anything wrong--- or anything you would want to hear.

there are women built by the sentences of Celine. dot-dot-dotted... freckled to mar the gestalt of their appearance... pockmarked in the soul. a soul that burns moonshine morning porcelain heaves against clenched teeth and out an unwilling nose: an ugly soul to hate. but after so many soulless sentences and women you take to building unplum bookshelf shrines in her honor--- ask her to move in so you can watch her – night and days of unemployment – as her anti-semitic dreams bloom sheet metal blossoms of hate ripping in the intestines of anthropomorphized aesthetics. the remedy is a juniper bloom herbal gin and, returning bottle in hand from the liquor store, you are not surprised to find her gone – but it would have hurt less if the shower curtain, light bulbs, records and ice cube trays were left behind.

there are no women built by the sentences of the Russians; not that i have seen and, if there are such women, i hope the city of Paris has stolen them all and locked them away in labyrinths where rats will eat thru steel walls for eternity to get to their decomposed perfection. this world is not meant for women built by those sentences – the war for Leda's daughter does not need to be relived in a world of nuclear stockpiles.

there are women built by the sentences of Nabokov, not doubt, but he is not one of THE Russians. his women are those of sophistication and power who refuse to reveal anything. it takes patience to see them as a whole, peek over the doors of Victoria's Secret dressing rooms as they try on undergarments and then you will see: their nipples do not quite line-up – it makes them comical rather than erotic. and up those Jacob's ladder legs of bliss there is nothing but the iron phosphate reality of women built by Nabokov sentences. up those legs is nothing – no twat, nothing to offer you – not even if you read between those legs with a machete will there be a slit enough worth your time.

there are women built by the sentences of Americans, too. not by Whitman; he built 16 y/o boys. Twain built circus attractions: bearded ladies, mermaids, atheists and other nonsensical creatures. Faulkner and Steinbeck built real women but i've never fancied real women. Hemingway had those ugly bitches that he shit-shined in such a way you would propose to them and not realize what they were until the morning after an annulment is possible.

there are women built by the sentences of Henry Miller; women with those long, run-on legs resembling something like importance. maybe there is something in those women – i never looked in all too many places. i never looked further north that the apex of abdomen triangle pointing down to all the meaning i cared to take from his sentences.

there are mangled messes of women built and broken by the beats; they look to be the models for Le Mademoiselles de Avignon. women who only profess love after their third emergency room vacation – women who have just enough spirit that it never gets tiresome trying to beat it out of them.

there are women built by the sentences of Bukowski; women raised on meat and Pabst and cultured on whiskey and roll-yer-owns. blowjob queen who use too much teeth and enjoy having their ears grabbed or their hair wrapped around a clenched first while the man in the next stall waits for his turn at her.

there are no women being built today; there are no Pygmalions of words anymore. they are sometimes summoned thru literal liturgy in libraries but they are always lost when you look away from the incantations of the book. the architects of words and women are dead; vonnegut, palahniuk and t.robbins could not even dress a woman let alone build one.

fantasies: that is all women are anymore--- they no longer exist.