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.

<<<

59

I am just not the type of person who
Would hack a pathway to the dark side
And whisper it into the mirror I am broken
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more*

Either by rising up through the landfill
Surface or migrating that lumpy rotting
Shape of bewitching vagabond called
Hope turning hock leaves into lace

Incapable of describing how I love your
Hardcorethumbnails not care insecure
Amid the saturation media coverage
Used by industry flakes as evidence.

* Gerard Manley Hopkins: "Carrion Comfort"