2…
The scissor-bird landscape is the breath
of my deliria stretching a vast expanse that my eyelids cannot touch,
like meat cleavers dressed for the charade of the game of given speech,
the flowering blood of spectral waste till given, taken from the
remnants of the whore’s breath upon my absent body, it is filled with
leeches feeding from the inside I am dying away I am tumour night, thick
with excreta, with a barrage of symphonies. These words seek the banal
butchery of silhouette attendants caressing my balls with lillies hands
adornments there is. There is the nomen-clature of this, the pulse of
some stagnant cigarette ash loosed from the marble taste of cold ash of
some stagnant loosed a cigarette. As if to say that the crushed violets
of this cigarette in the mouth is a blade balancing between each lip.
There is taste of rust and alcohol on the tongue. Yet each given recluse
of light will -true- spittoon of blind sadness there will be trees
unhinged the night is slim it cannot forget the habitat or habitations
of. Irrelevancy of blind havoc and the rage of dysentery speechless but
for the sound of echoing in non-space how can one. Disease yes this is
of the disease it is drunk down like death-willing absolution from which
to draw the blackest wines the secrets the promise of elusive all.
Fucked yet I will. Not for the saying of the asking of. Walls stripped
blind of elusive in the illusion of walls they dissipate into piles of
sand reform wherein is the. A compulsion in the face of the centre it
never held, given now the illusion of the centre’s function +1. Night
tastes of bitter rat. Rat cares not what it tastes of. Rat is the season
to be jolly ever. I feel extremely unusual, I may be going again yes I
must light this cigarette and be done. I strike a bone matchstick and
sudden as if to exist it spits shards of light caressing the tip of my
cigarette. Yet nowhere to go I inhale/ exhale a plume of divisional
apathy, indivisible from myself I cast it a side, this bone matchstick.
There is horror in my continuum. Repetition. Cracked marble and
excrement sprayed against the walls, a reek of stale sweat and the cold
breeze of a hand not given to touch. No not rat. Or perhaps a night of
rats. I no longer fear what it once was that I ran from not as before.
The denuded shadow that crawls across my face viewed in a cracked mirror
is what I have come to absurdly replicate in a pool of water flecked
with an oily substance milked from the lungs of some distance that I
never will.
---
3...
The pulse shock-shore
in the shadow of a murder of obsolete victims, crows, spliced candied
wings outstretched given to madness and the flourish of the crowd. It is
death, mine or the empty kind, the speck of blood upon a starched white
collar or perhaps the lipstick-stain what does it matter it. Spoken
like a true dissipate of sky the layers of which are unknowable yet do
not it. Regardless there are veins to touch and absent rhythm, the cold
calm reflection in the pupil of the sun’s indifference hence it does
not, a razor slash all the same, given that there is the flesh of one
thousand pared statuettes, women, detritus, nothing. I feel something,
though it is less than before. My teeth are the crowned sneer raging
into the beckoning silence from out of which there is no caress. As if
to. Not a trace it. All that was ever heard or seen drifts down that
same lake where the image of a denuded child lies floats face-down a
trail of blood drifting, cardiacal speech will not change this. I trace
the sky with a finger that will of course not reach yet I do I trace the
colour of the skyline with finger with my index finger I trace the
colours of the skies they are liquid. Yet still more than this to claim.
Somewhere else. Almost always the best place to find oneself
disentangled from the lie of given all, or. Meanwhile I know that the
walls are peeling elsewhere like sunburnt skin and that there will ever
be blood there will ever be blood until I am unspoken for. My headless
barrage kicks in the teeth of it. As if to say, cleft dew, boundless
disregard, I do not care. I do not care for the sun its listless absence
nor the traces birthed from the sickness the nausea of breath.
Electrical carousel of dream-spell, a swelling of the eyes the tongue as
passage through abandoned courtyard I dissipate as I observe I return I
am nothing. There have been others more firmly footed in the twisted
limbs of abandonment, the horse’s teeth are bared through which ooze a
carrion feel of maggoty searching for something what I cannot. Dead pale
the remembrance of my fading sight as if there were ever. Broken swans
of newspapers snag in the aborted bones jagged and still as stone though
even the stone melts before my eyes the ground beneath my feet crackles
like crystals. They are not beyond vision yet I am elsewhere. I recall
the hand that gripped my hand hence I was not forever alone I was alone.
Yet afterwards I had to begin again…
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