this again, the language of laying in, two broken loaves, the spicing of cured meats, an old folk made meticulous again, now we have two homes, two kinds of toes touching toes, infecting the kind of melody tortured out of us, recently the chaos lay in grass...
choke grass
shut volumes of silence
tripped wires and melee
hammer off the real work
make the real work stick
make the horror of blood trustworthy
and the variable of humid air speaks
he goddamn never tried, and in a belated letter, to a variable, we often considered this to be a mistake of craft, the light hanging off the wall and reflecting, contemplating being fucked, whistled tunes and those ugly neon cherries, smoke told us something, but listening is such a disease, a triumph over the latter cross, the ancient bridge to just over there...
gone gone Michigan
after hours beach love
how gone that can be
hating yourself and being so cute
I could listen
I did once in a funeral
through a long hot tunnel
in a vast hole to the future
where my mother named me again
something stupid
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