Feral now. Now that I am torn away, uncleanly but deeply, I feel through to abstractions and my vesicles burst. Shame shadows me, breaks from the tips of my toes and is dropped in the dust of intention.


Possessed by a body of half-awareness, I broke with a silent code when I drew my first suffering. A bed of half-formed words and faces. A crown of scribbles. A pulse of echoes and a guessed abyss. 


A chime. How to refuse? The source—you could not eat it with a fork. What about on holidays? The pelt is heavy, but real life needs it to remain distinct. The casings of scrapped wax. The seed in basic medium. The acid mother.


A thumbprint of oil swirled into a galaxy. I was tired of nodding. Night minted the dance. Rages, to dance on the concrete. The underfoot forgotten. The forgetting peeled back.











Always cracked and restored. Overflowing and blank. Central, dominant absence of place. Opals blinked from our eyes. Buttons fasten and feet spur. Naval, brooding the cares on the ground. Rainy and green, the forest waters the sun. The tonic moon faintly awaits its return.


A history of human backs and shoes. Pangs of chlorine, antiquity sinks. Another bent dream. The city swaddled in pink. Reds slow in diffusion. Sneakers thread the interior and lights of empire cloaked in light bruise.


What is the fragile thing near the wall. Another pressure overflows and the sky weeps. Into the hot pavement and into his small hands. His floating,

territorial scale.


Anti-picture where wind whips, where the silver and the gold rains sleep. The promise was droplets of water behind you. Docked turf wears the veils of the humorous arcs, and the mist breathes. Each spectral fan sides with you.

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