It will look as though I am flying into myself.
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“…here thy generations endeth in accord.”
And father and therefore must have beenAdopted, because on my TV screenThe role-children rarely share a featureWith either parent. The fact they’re actorsAnd I’m not is what makes me misbegot—A matched world of monitors all 2-shotThe mirror daily where I pray these starsCome: cancel everyone of us whose namesAnd clans have sundered human unityDescend always…
By a swath of inks the eye
which alter with the watercolorway his brush washes its dyein distance, though even thisfinds a faraway fixed notby the surveyor’s plumb butby the action of the thumbdelaying all the fingers meantto draw out of the paper,splashed dry. The clean graincatches what it should retainif enough pressure pleasureis applied to the stain to lie.Note: Tomlinson is…
‘My age, my beast!’ – Osip Mandelstam
The light drifts like dust over facesWe wear masks on our genitalsYou’ve heard of lighting cigarettes with banknotes we used to light ours with JewsHistory is made of bricks you can’t go through itAnd bricks are made of bones and blood andBones and blood are made of little tiny circles that nothing can go through…
I examine
searching forthe porewith EXITover it
I don’t dare speak too loudly,
that string is not too strongI think: and at times I haveto breathe. Or maybe I fearmy paraphrastic exhalationswill spoil the oiled perfectionof its sleekness, will mistover that brightness whoseneedle sharp point compassesmy every stray. I am asedgy in my way as it–as little-rippled, as subtle.Prey to vapors, to suddenicecap thaws, seismicdicethrows, the world wires…
The only response
to lie down before it and play dead