No rest in shot, set to receive;
a nine letter word for nothing at all.
a keynote held by paper thin walls.
So listen:
room to grey;
read me okay?
get in the way
It is coming together, so to say.
Down, elsewhere, to breaking day.
Back, for a moment, something else came.
The moment stayed.
say
stray thought
“Mm.”
stupid question
“Let me have it.”
do you think this would be any easier
if you were not distracting me
“Well…”
wait
“…it wouldn’t be half as hard.”
Something you said between long lines and lewd looks.
“Corners are secret keepers.”
Even the clarity is dumped for dead weight.
Truth and light part ways.
The odd degrees congregate;
the
even
s lose all sense of order and of rhythm or tempos and cant help but wonder if time is finally up if the jury was ever out if the fix is in or incoming or the devil himself inself is inself is inching down a dirt road toward a shack called a house where a boy called a man lay alone for miles for days sweating his last tears for his lover dead for decades unable to speak unable to think or sing or scream a thing or
open the fucking window or die.
Now we’re talking.
The eye of the storm is a dead ringer walking
who won’t take infinity for an answer anymore.
He goes into business for himself
on the wrong side of the primrose tracks
and could sell suicide to a saint
if he only had the chords.
The one with the last flayed nerve
for badly drawn curtains and unblocked doors
and a lightyear stare for any empty chair.
Aways he goes.
i remember
solesen
one way in
sensis nova
two across
onsen itsis
mn
Solace lies.
