The English language is mine, and not mine. The English language is the shifting ground, the complex mess and soup and great wave over and around. The English language exists solely for my pleasure and my pleasure rests in its complexity. My pleasure grounds the English idioms. My pleasure starts with sound. My pleasure is all of a tongue. And words curling up my throat a growling purring hum. The English words work up through my body. And I take pleasure in resolve as well. A sharp snap in the sentence. A tight turn. Small details, small particular lettered sound. Pattern. Rhyme and rhythm and repeated phrases. Parcels.

The English language languid and honing. The more it bites the more it swallows the more it spits and curves. The English language is nothing if not expanding. Sopping up. All explicit and pinned. The English language has a scientific turn of mind, it pins all specimens right to the quiver, right in the heart. The English language takes aim. The English language is never fraudulent, the English language is always becoming, the English language is always at home. The English language flaunts its history. The English language is an arrogant slag.