25

Now all the pieces can be linked, bacteria form the stench of understanding, the cutting out. You made the right decision not to be muffled. Tick for an epitaph.

Sun shines outside the cellophane humours of the earth. Care is closed. I want to write about alcohol.

My companions adjust to Protection. Surface words scare away the body; and scare the psyche.

*

An explosion. Bone egress, dust of my familiars, perception an entire city running, scrawling puddles. The average man can be dealt with; body count's an excellent material. And I have watched these insects crawling. But so much is blue.

*

Making is detached from tolerance, crows on reinforced concrete, menial heaviness, sift from the impossible.

Writing is an imagined significance, subterranean networks navigated with indignant entertainment.

Sense roars to exit death; all faces looking, in a moment, several bits human; but not a word.

<<<

31

it isn't the bacteria that's out to get us
it's the rogue cell arriving in a cellophane package

whispering in the body's busy plantations
so quietly that no one hears the revolution

until the phone rings and death is on the line
suavely delivering like a terrorist

even in the safety of your own home
you can hear the bombs ticking like beetles

running their paranoid legs over everything
from the inside