The becoming

As wilted as you are,

It splatters

On the walls and look–


there is so much gore

and still

there is so much more.


I had to order a drilling machine

Or else the music will fall in the pits

of my seismic mind,

Is this what a stroke feels like?

The applause of losing sense

When you break

You break,

The blunt ends of reality

As the horizon folds and assemble around your forehead

There is finally a permanence in the clouds; says:

there she treads unfed


Into the oblivion.


I hear the never-saying so much

I became them.


The trees, the ice sitting in my refrigerator and a sullen end of my toe,

I throb

But I say no more.



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