Tuesday, December 20, 2011

That Books Should Find Hollow Spaces To Fill

my suit catches
fire again
on closed circuit
television
the lens fails to capture
the texture of my
textile reminder
to find
the expression
the respect for dissection
sharp instruments
and destination gasses
in the
repetition frames
glazed with the
space bar
drinks in the afterzone
blanketed by
astral girls
and stars like pearls
exploded across
dimensions
that we wasted
we were trying to find anything
anyone left
who was living
before
we stuffed any one
into the ovens or the homes
and forgot them
(bang)
white lights
explosions
hello...?
just pick up
just a voice to ease the pain
just another bout
of wrongful information
terminated while receiving
broken interception
discovered covered with blood
upon
disco very tired to train the same
but the name is scrubbed
until your are lone
until you are done
until you turn into a butterfly
or a dove
or just left like a piece of felt
mashed into the mud
totally submerged and
numb another number on a bullet
in a gun measured out in cups
no more pain
the gods are coming again
the ship is done
it only comes to take one
like some floating balloon
off to the moon
when I thought the clock
had come to take me
a vow to the silence
dream avoidance
and the screams
of the last light
-------------------
(unfinished)

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