a screaming, writhing pink figure
conveys the lessons of less,
religion a colour she thinks
she has seen in the senses,
in the mental water of stones
and forms.

the saddest, clumsiest
blades of razors cross her
asymmetrical chest, shapeless
ciphers of catharsis; sparseness
and slow abundance like
two flowers together in
the rusty shadow, the almost
empty ethereal sky.
--

i can make it if i just don’t see in your face the decomposition of realisation and dissolution. a pulse in the flesh regrets the words, flutters in its zigzag rhythms, clinging to the slope and hidden under branches. these meandering rhythms are the saddest, easily broken by nervousness. they resemble the corruption of the pockmarks of achievement.

the most beautiful things are the most vacated, the rectangular fog a deep thin gloom. the air of the close sky a handless trunklike bomb, eerie laments blown unseen by the wind; everything hanging on, impossible to fit in crates.

your crying women become clumsy but never quite lose their balance.