42

Flowers and worms sunk in the soil
everyone kept in the dark tonight.
You need to roughen the edges
we soften in the twilight.

There are birds in the sewage,
spores in the grass, crows in the trees.
Winter is still and silent
nothing moves in the river.

Rank stench of rotting leaves
everyone kept in the dark tonight
stamped down unwittingly
the boot on human face

<<<

51

A book from the dead

Dark broken into the person I am: birds of carrion. A surface moves in rotting. Blooms link to worms. Words scare away the blue crawling above evidence.

Life is an emergency. Whispering is human, a rising mistake. The evanescing psyche prospers, muffled, blending face and body, neglected, understanding stamped down.

It's a peculiar interior, dispersed in the chase of susurration.

Writing is passed so quietly. Manufacture of parts. An image making approximate noise. Infatuation withering, fooled by terror.

Armies are moving. Work is being God, writing, into love. Strangeness my mouth. Attenuated extravagance.

Earth is making the noise. In the sewage. As a word. The edges harden. The inside outside the person I have detached. The stench of the asylum.

Every night sky is defunct.

The body will be expelled.

An unidentified figure taking its head off.

Sunsets, palpitate. Making is detached from perception. Heaviness shapes method.