a language not mine

it was the language that was not  mine, and a kind request for more of it, confection and nausea.  letters off to entities, and entities' dissolution.   another book, and prose so thick with knowing, it knows no limit.  madness, and the finger in the face, another star on the arm, a likely suspect, and the lack of an audience.  a lack.  and the performative aspect shrinking off into oblivion.  computers speaking to me like dream robots, telling me things you wouldn't, faster, faster than you wouldn't say.  and a brain filled up with spells to outlast annihilation, and some thought of the published, and ubiquity, a daytime curse.
that i longed for your approval, and the winning heft of pages of it, more ludicrous words, inscribed by way other people's thoughts, garbled, and better than self-reflexivity, this aping of victoriana, that sat me silently up aphasiac like the hungry doll i was, deep in suburbia, slummed on monies.  you wouldn't write, and kill me quickly, off like another meaningless codex.  here sits your three letters, your five, your worth in a word, your worthlessness.
and if he comes back from israel, or if he doesn't, it is no matter, i did not love so much.  but that i sent him this, it bothered me so completely, and i long for that silence wherein he never maimed me, nor i him, with words thickened by academia, dada diplomat contra autodidact.
so slowly i'm teaching myself all you never said, and unlearning the chaos of pomposity, stupid in the planar morning, where sun journeys slowly, and the earth spins me dizzy, and i barely move, pondering hikikomori, kafka, and disrespect of others, disrespect of their otherness.  and that i fit so coyly on your little pyre, where you burned me up like a confetti pinata for a fete de la psychiatry, another noontime bloodtaking---happy be that evidence of your condemnation, where none knew the profundity of your failure to reach me, and lonely, i was interred in ten years silence, or more, to emerge through a wormhole on this side of paradise, in love again, and wanting clearly, not to hurt you, despite my disdain.  for which i am sorry, sorry, sorry and retching. retching at her name sitting like a rubber stamp on your ego, better than a google, or dot com, this faux intellection.  and the receipt of monies and grants, and all the jolly things you have to say to one another, between cups of tea, while the earth burns, and i outside the gate, in a prison of your mind, where you screamed me to oblivion, and yes i am avoiding you.  i could not get far away enough from you, and berlin had your hue, and fassbinder's death not too soon, with the hateful way of it thick in cursed geography, and the architecture of genocide built over the blood of innocents, and that it was not razed, accretions of language, misogyny, churches, freud and other imposters who you fellate in the glories of your self-hatred which you pen off to me, inconnu.  congratulations, and the door is locked against you but other demons found other ways to macerate my body, but this morning i am safe, safe but for the words that sting, sting into eons, like the gold star on my arm, which you sent me again, this time par digitos, or les belles lettres.