if but to compartmentalize these scattered emotions. to hold them dear and illuminated up into the feeble light that pours through the transom. i have sat here many years, clad in the pelts of badgers that once frolicked free, paralyzed and gazing at walls gaudily decorated in crimson striped wallpaper that curls and withers, droops under my saddened scrutiny.
these friends, eviscerated in jars. i care for them, i do.
During the war, my grandmother’s hand found a piece of metal forged by a bomb to resemble a pistol. It may well have been the same bomb that assigned death to other family members: it was certainly the same bomb that assigned death to other families. This cold steel was used at night to ward off looters and rapists and ravagers of life.
Opportunistic is a way of life
in Eastern Europe this slab of solid metal, long ago rusted away or entwined in tree roots, is as reminder that pacifists can be survivors.
Grandmother’s hand and my mother’s dependence on mother have long since been baked to ashes. Proof has gone. The memory of their mettle still glints in my mind on full moon nights.
This is not mythology. This is only life.
crumpled horn my make believe friend that sanitises chrome telecom with a hiss of her hand. the weather heats the vat of silken ties that escape to hide with the vipers of seldom.
i never thought i'd pass this wind again.
lesser days than this.
am i uncertain?
parlance passes by as if a floater; a memory stick; a USB and a USP. disgrace flaps a hidden half wing - a bat of choice hearkens to the village spat out from corroded lips like spital from a dry fuck. as wholesome as this but not as it mought bar. a baracode for a bad monkey these days. unavoidable stains the minute changes they glue to code the pocket in the miasma of fulcrum bent. has been genuflects a frozen format. a style of rainbows like refidge-hounds bound for crowns that forest the damp patch, the moist crutch, the hallow hole of her risen skirt lips. we peel apart the bar stool to fold the hour small and flat into a glimmering of pike shafts.
the plant pliant grins a stalk of ears.
my planet aches for thee on silver sperm. dresden ignites another dream as the fallout from hotels rise ash cover by the dirt track of embers.
Is discharge Dada? No, it is not. Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Dada..
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