Sunday, September 11, 2011

all of the unused things

half of the bed
many bodily functions
all the lower circuits of the mind
so many gestures only accessible
when relaxed
almost all of the chairs
the table
he becomes all cerebral
all top chakra
though that too withers
becomes a thin and wasted thing
his strut and pride
his elevation
his erection
his cockade and cloud
the laughter and arrogance
the penchant
the pendulum
at the last it is Toulouse Lautrec
shitting on a beach on camera
the whole world stinking of that giggling shit
a room in which one can barely breathe
driving licences
hands, even hands
that used to make things
that used to give
now just pliers to lift the routine
get narrower still
watch it all slide away
just a brain in a jar
amongst the cauliflower heads
and onions
sending out its last mephitic signal
my name is this this
I don't remember
it doesn't matter
I left
they will pick through the traces
and find nothing
but ash
sticking to the floor in that outline
where the fluids became sticky
where the insects settled to feed
all else blown away
just a wisp and a whisper



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