© 2008 - 2015


-

Archiv

Blogger news

Blogger templates

 

+

Umblättern

Kategorien

 

Sequence motif

If there's no edibles at the end of the line,
then the line is to be walked away straight ahead
no following the positrons
unless you seek for the golden annihilation
which smells of sin and guilt
and gold.


#8

Their arms, their shoulders
they are stiff
muscular containers of acid

the nails are growing back again
the hairs
evidence of some unidentified failure

their wigs are well-fitted though
heavy under the grime

they are a nation of malactivity

Their errors framed
by the minimizing fracture of sloth and hopelessness
their errors are nothing
in comparison and out of

the smell offensive as it was
the gleam
a dense afternoon sitting on an animal print couch with no pants on, sweating as usually

they are a nation of malactivity

or, what I like to name, creation
honoring the walls once covered in expensive scrolls
now hidden behind pieces and particles of oily cadmium dust

a pure selection of losses building over this drowsy foundation
the silent glance of Andromeda
gravitates and swirls to the hole

along with everything else and not.

The only posture that is protective
laying with the waist broken on an arm
unwashed, certainly in negligee

yet the night will bring its own warriors
exactly with the same frequency regardless of my body's position and location
we will still as always fight and win

and sweet mellow mornings will follow
exactly with the same constant condescension
that occurs between two.

---

That warm day the sun slid in through the blinds and the white flimsy curtains
I turned a little around under the covers and felt my head against the soft pillow
the floor was wooden like before and the walls were clean of marks again
can't recall, whether I had breakfast or not, I probably did have some kind of
next step by the shore, sun soothing the skin and the saltwater coming to my knees
untouched, unbreathed offing wind; my arms and hair and shirt are flying away
silken shivers to my waist, to my chest but wouldn't ever call it cold or shudder
my fingers float underwater aghast to how clasping feels of coying in this mass
sugar and butter now a shiny trace my blood hovers for a while and spreads
the chest succumbs and my weight is lost behind the veins of my eyelids.

---