I am the sound of the engine running, I am the ringing of the room from the lights left on. The hollow hush of the rush of empty through the air, the way the silence is sounded out in the static stippling my skin. This is the body, this is the embodiment, the careless retread pressing through the passage. The inhabitant and the husk left careening down these corridors, the claim and the sign, the fretful incarnation and the vessel of its translation. Here I am, going to and fro, a dull dose of active ambiguity. There I go, staggering out dots and dashes, trailing dues and imbues.
Here in the remnants of the tattered myth of sentience, this listless tapping on the glass, for all the moment that moth beating against the bulb. Eureka unto the punctuation of bashed brains and mistaken moons, perhaps the phrasing a flavor of the metaphor, the mangled magic that drives the mind. The furtive depths of transient antecedents, all these roads bound for Rome, the ‘yes, and’ properties of inheritance evident in broad strokes and slow orbits. An artless strumming of the senses, a melody always playing out of tune. This light left on in a cold locked room.
It’s the sear of the thousand pinpoints that miss your needlework, the ache left where only devastation abides, the want as time takes each space away. In this hereafter only hurt and hunger endure this turn of phrase into flesh, this mistake made of mirrors and ghosts, this tongued and toothed exhalation to the hollow exalted. It’s not what I said it’s the way I said it, a low growl, an atavistic gear of the throat as we sing along wrong to the eternal song. Chains and charms and chemistry, faster and faster as the sky come a tumbling. The stars crash through this sieve of cognition into map and myth and cosmos, threading constellations into the beadwork, dancing heaven back on its heels.