they said a man could not be defeated (only perhaps destroyed a bit). the said alot of things and i think it was hemingway that said that particular one. but he is just a writer. and a dead one at that. i sat up passed midnight last night and passed the witching hour too and i have sat up into the yellow shins of morning which is probably from one to five a.m. or so and it sounds like this ( ). so i know defeat: a man far away has defeat ed me. i don't know if perhaps you thought of me once last night as you undressed and looked at all the mudpuddles and dashes and dents in your body. i don't know if your hand even imitated my slightest gesture, like a flower bending down. but i'll tell you what. i walked around stucco walls looking for you and i burned pink candles to pretend they were your body. and i turned on the water faucet to hear the noise of your legs like some glorious nothing, and then, will then i got under the bed to remember what it is like there. in the middle of you. (its just like an ocean, (its like an ocean i think). some glorious nothing. so please writers, do not tell me about defeat. and mostly you are dumb dead writers anyway, so i do not give a damn. just don't talk to me, because my lover has deafeat ed me. (deflated me). and do you get it it's ab se nce. perhaps before he left i was destroyed anyway (maybe just a little bit. no, more than that really). but now, oh now, oh jesus, oh e.e. cummings, oh young bob dylan, i am defeat ed. and it is so much more the terror to be defeat ed than destroyed. it is like being sat down and told by your parents that boys and girls are not meant for each other, and that life is made out of other things than love, like old tires and oil rags and yellow fingernails