to my dark precursor, that peculiar Mark...
In the line of flight that is love
there is a sign,
in the sign a crack,
an abyss,
the bottomless depth of an open wound...
as the wound throbs with emptiness,
the full body of death devours everything that flows,
tides no more,
flights no more,
dives no more.
matter forgets itself,
its plenum remains,
just nothingness of not-thing-ness
just nowhere of now-hereness
the wound heals
scabbing over the mouth of that very intimate
exclamation mark
punctuation screams no more
language lost
time stripped from its future
its fundamental layer
becomes heavy with the load of everything-there-was
everything-there-was becomes a piece of flesh
flesh with no bone(r)s to penetrate it
nothing to hold it together
nothing in it to stand up for it
flesh
now nameless
flesh
heavy
flesh
out in the open
flesh
flashing out
flesh
still feeling
flesh
sweating cold
flesh
shivering
flesh
desolate
flesh
mute
flesh
scratching its insides
flesh
can't get out
flesh still living
...
a drooling mouth comes out of nowhere
with big hands and feet and a grotesque body and a giant hump
looking familiar in its atrocity
properly humanly ugly
picks it up
spits in it
wipes his mouth
puts it in his pocket
in the pocket a giant hole
in the hole a gummy dick sticking his head out
the human beast hobbles on...
a scorching pain follows
stamping it with a mark reading
[not over yet]
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