nothing to say any more
expelled from injured paradise
incarcerated in plural driven substitution
nothing to imagine anymore
given another calmer euphemism
left blank for another order, weak absurdity
nothing to say seeking urgent home severing as body and limbs, further on drama and numbers, dead leaves and twigs the exercise book reads, permanently wrenched from a swarm of messages
undone, replaced by a generous claw with nothing to say
in the low brown out a pattern appears, flat conformist appendage, weak link to limitation, a self-contained comical system, offering leveraged suicide, an aberration with intolerable delirium
it taunts with a succession of proofs and irresistible lies
whose house swarms with rats, coming from whose faces, whose words, only to offer momentarily pure a bitter end where nothing is true and all is false.
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there is a shipwreck on each side of innuendo, tears gather around the collective shadow of shadows; none clearer than the last unshakable, never noticed, next time please sir, more.
enshrouded by fear, one hundred years after eleven pages of violent reality testing, when the beginning was the final question, outside the disruption of anything hungry on emptiness, suggesting a response of objections, calling on me to speak in tongues.
trying to read the consequential future, apply anything to anything; knowing any application to the current materiality is wretched normality and remote productivity.
yet, after loitering in morning’s death, in the mirror glistening fragrant outside, amongst mangled bodies and scattered twisted ties, unhealed from unheard names, I am called back, repulsed, confronted, tormented, lying in sleeping hands ready to snap.
hives fold into ghettos, the amber sun disappears where every act is
spoken of in purely stylistic displacements reflecting perfect
appropriation for whatever order zone the case may be,
we settle in where the shipwreck isn't noticed
adhering to silent rules in time
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