Veins, instead, since now - long, and only slightly, ‘I’m Seeping’ - as a Horror flashes - What knows or (is) Touching, only – Water: over the Cat, either Eyeing this Day, or the Absolute: a Wall,
rushing Forward to Simmer, what
Remains, of our Days: Nothing, and
fucking Nothing in this Bed ‘comes either’
– Postures:
I tackling We against Blood, against
the Pigeons combing-up through the
Sky, this Day – Normal: as the World strays all the Same, and the Plateaus,
the People, the Words I can no longer Identify and of course: Horrible Little You – Devoided: what is Meowing
me Home or, Howing what Becomes, what
Defines, what is thoroughly Devoid of The Genuine - Continual:
A Continental drifting over what it
must be, to have Essence in the Losing of one’s Vision, in the Sight, the
Torture, the Diming, the Light:
Touching
upon what Purveys, upon what is evenly Distributed Five Time in your Hair: the
Bite of my Horror: the Sad Sum of
slackening in the Slightest of
Light
