Here hope is a fragment of memory
and fantasy. One responds to the
impossible determinant. I am only a
number confined to remnants of
humanism. I have difficulty eating
without assistance. I have a drug
problem. I’ve had run-ins with the
law. You are so kind to take me.
Give me a chance. Give me a toilet for
piss and shit and vomit by chance.
The movement of bodies in space, the
tenement dancers subtracted to a
rubbish heap of laughter. You’re so
convincing and you sleep with me
quickly. Only the meaning and frame
are referenced. Draw the line of
failure.
I am writing to you but it’s too late.
Barely tolerated, ushered out, and still
stray into body. When do humans
become monsters? Shut my face
against love’s constructivism. Admire
space faultily smooth. There are no
more kisses stitched into goodnights.
Your jewels and dressing gowns are
animal backs. It was pleasant to
imagine them as immeasurable thrums
and kicks. There is no opposite of life
only loneliness in landscape.
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