but ghosts are necessary
a chart of / a collective
inarticulate harmony
i.e. minor surface noise
item: a basement strata
its bibliographic shell
I mean, its celestial arc
has got us surrounded.
Anyway, here in 1917
we’re having a right laugh
no point in waking you
love’s solar boat is slashed
is trickling down our thighs
the chatter of the past
meaning, the surface sector
or London, just sitting there
we’re not criminals, no
but the dead are, inaudible
these songs of burning circles
& then we saw medicines
trickling down our world
its membranes & posterity
weird, this springing speech
was blood in another circuit
not ours tho, so whatever
crackling in our tombs
we are warm & empirical
when we’re frightened, we
No comments:
Post a Comment