This is how we
turn the box universe--al
nature of time
dilated time flowing
outward toward fingers
colors molting parasol
twist it and my chin is
tormented toward pillow flamingos strips
forever sadly
this world is a falsity paradise
I write it.
Chicken scatch.
...
How far away is the past?
Can't remember beyond years
...
The Mexico I dream is
a waste of paper
Shillings, an-
a good gift
lowered
...
What do I write for?
Nothing happens
I don't understand
Illusions are inconsequential ecstacy
...
No ends or birth
dank street snow
like paper poly-color orgasm
It's sad, if I let them know
they're constructs, will
I be forced to live alone
in memorial darkness?
...
Afraid to get up
thirsty, will the
universe lose itself
in porno-lying freckle bloody explosion?
...
We're come by ways
shredding space
outside unreality
I hesitate to admit
I'm the cause,
Let there be Light!
...
I could care loo
o
o
o
o
o
o
o
o
o
ng
enough to wrap this
never existence in
my memories
What is snow?
But I asked
Human Trust.
Abyss.
...
I wonder if my novels
ever lied
If they're all false then,
I never littered outside...
...
When I find these in my back pocket
In the morning
hours hours
I'll forget it's all false
and live-
...
Did the machines wince
when they birthed us
into terrifying existence,
weeping.
I love it. Perfect explanation of everything.
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