Like Beatrix Potter,
Wittgenstein held a sweaty mother once too
with an armature of lines
Oh god yes & didn't he feel that like a kid
playfully moved by a tornado
& plopped down into a watered-down cotillion,
truant semester of brain nerves & deviled eggs
& so we are awful little people with awful little dreams...
Well, don't get in a fuck about it
thinks Beatrix crapped out on a diagonal,
with car swerves & mad-cap shooting
at the height of a person's heart
Anyway the glamour & crash of Wittgenstein without blood
or Black Russians
Delineates the helixes of Beatrix
"my speedy dessert season"
An armistice wrested from the dying bunnies
& splayed like the fourth of July
Her old bean primed for love & petrified
like spring girls in weight roooms at 14
Hold on pussy hold on
There you go. Now you're fine.
Beatrix's affections return tenacious
& slow like spanked kids or continental drift
All this & she is deaf