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tear me open and eat my lungs because i am shit, i am nothing, unnoticed by everything. i am the power lines, the telephone lines, the wires leading to your tv, the cars beside the highway, unseen by everything that is that was that is that was. i am shit, and sometimes i look outside and the night sky is full of all the images of the time when i wasn't.
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art is war i will not become a fucking screw in your machine a fucking masterpiece on the walls of this haunted museum
where do you think you are? what the fuck do you want? because god is what is dead! not revolution! and i will make the concrete crumble and i will become everything
bullets and asphalt and oil and sand and we are everything we never thought could be art is war
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fuck you and your war machines that see eye to eye with all our stolen dreams and fucked up memories of the concrete and asphalt and intention. i think i remember intention.
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conquered limbs, conquered bones, all the flesh and blood we spill on living-room floors as we dance around to the beats that stumble out of cannon fire and oh my god, new york is looming over us like we were rats in cages, but all i can see (all i can hear) is the sound of sirens and car accidents. trainwreck autocracy!
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breathe in bone marrow, become my creaking knees and the space beneath my eyes. i miss you and i miss me, i miss the sound of our dogs barking when the sun rose and how everything once had colour. i swear that that is the truth. i don't hate you. i don't hate you. i don't hate you. everything once had colour, and it's that that i miss. i don't hate you. if i keep telling myself that, maybe it can come true. but for now, we're dead, and our living room is on fire from all the friction. we're dead.
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6. |
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the mountains and
alley
facing my window
put up their palms,
not to petition mercy,
but exasperation:
“the wind sings pretty songs
and the trees all dance along
but we are bound”
and i respond:
“i want a
cigarette”
crossing our fingers as you
spoke,
you and i
were androgynous, apocryphal
a terrifying metronome:
open on all sides, not knowing
not caring
at all
all the pretty things that
embroider the castellated trail
left by your
fingers on my countertop
have gone away,
leaving little but
apostrophe and
a petition.
so we dance into
shoeboxes and
thrust our palms into
gloves or pockets
preparing for
minutes of
piercing
scalding
cognition
i told you last night
that if you locked yourself in a box for six months,
the last thing you would miss would be me.
and you grinned (it spanned the width of delaware) as you said:
“the wind is not the least of our fears,
and trees are not the walls of illium anymore”,
a sentiment that echoed into every backseat crossing over the colorado border. the rain outside your front door is a map-maker, tracing silhouettes as kavan and i left your house for the very last time, and all our terrible deeds were undone
and
all your imperfections were unmade. if you were an apple or a rose petal or a bent nail or a lyric you would lose twice your value and all of your flavor. prettiness, fleshy cunt and all. we counted off silence like beats in a symphony, and
slowly, cassandra crept out from behind the altar
and slowly fourteen bullets ripped her apart,
each one a grace note,
speaking, singing:
“oh god oh god oh god”
running through our friends with plastic knives
burning hair and
slipping in priam’s sons
hope is the greatest of evils
and we are just attention
i was looking for you
in the surface of
my photograph paper;
i could only see my
reflection.
and i’ve been alone for the last year,
but if you could see
how much i’ve changed
in the last four days
i swear you’d be proud of me.
and i think i know what it means
to say “a man’s room is his kingdom”
culled and called, a
canyon holding vigil over
strip clubs and strip malls
makes haste to his position;
the candlelight murmurs that
he is late, five minutes too long
but we are so certain of everything
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