paramystical
science or conglomerate fire.
too
much to appease company, too much
to
redeem irreligiosity, too much to die a
loser.
purposed language her words caving
while
I became postage & mailed myself.
at
gnarm-gates, or ceiling spackle where
a
hanger told me its history: it cried, it
conjured
death, while blood & bone piled
in
its corner. it was lies, while one might
ask:
“When did you die?” most were born
flopping,
needing mouth-to-mouth, just to
ragtag
existence. such beauty in carpet, it
never
complains, but I heard it murmur. a
woman called, she
tugged dice, I saw it.
