raskolnikoff loved the banalities & secretly coveted
a tan, his feet moving slowly at times, like when he
watched a girl’s soft tresses. he would get the chill
in his heart every day (people tired to hear him tell
of the contrasts), but for now raskolnikoff walks in
a very manly way past where the boys work out.
he doesn’t want to tell you his story. it’s like it’s
blurting out of him though, ejaculating, maybe as if
it were being written by a relative down the line.
this casts a certain light on the way he figures his
own jauntiness, or gets lost in pensive thoughts.
raskolnikoff know that though.
ah, raskolnikoff. once caught limpid & nude in
a small cellar room, the squalor partly charming.
once a child among a multiple gathered in mirth
by a parental figure. another epoch & another
pantomime of vermin racing through the mind.
in one tense raskolnikoff lies down; physical
action being but one half the equation.
a circle is a regular polygon & this should always
be insisted upon. raskolnikoff tired of repeating his
surname but never of the fight. we should watch
him – his many politenesses, kindnesses, & skirmishes
– follow his example. poor raskolnikoff. a victim of
feudalism & the way people mutter things a little too
audibly at times. we could say a lot about time.