An objection of laughter, a caught throat where death answers a thumping of hands on the back, chorus of angel birds that crash into my windows, feathers full of fear. Vermin crawl on the limbs of letters.
Rotten heart of language, or the secretions of stars a violence of cosmos before we could know the blunt spectacle of flowers colors blackness behind eyelids and book covers. Life made from dust gypsies.
No. if you were churning thinking about sex in the afternoon, a lamp in the rain. The edges of my skin hurting or bending just so around bone and fat a muscle seems not human but equine in its constructions.
In the news everything goes well except reality on the bus or hallway. I am happy to attempt utopia or engage angel birds so lush so impossible. And if there is screaming or singing then death is close or already living in our words.
Sleeping no just the suspension of breath covered in cloth, linen. A robe of fleshy air mantled on my shoulders, you shaking in the hahaha’s of seasons of wind of air before pollen light catastrophe of meaning before animal before sex.
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