It’s The End Of The World [05]: Human
Human
The fact that he’s rolling
down the old fear
through scraped, incremental homesickness
makes his intelligence a gunfire journey.
The skies cocoon phantoms.
Fifty jeers for the ninth wife,
who asks walls about the inferno in a metro.
There’s the matter of the burnt-wick with your mother,
whose coffee stare is so intense, you’re the absence.
Mating requires come balloons
and light from a show, hibiscus-pink.
We are a million nights, a fox hairbrush,
granite gibberish.
Give me cake, and I’ll Instagram it.
Shoulders flex and reflex.
Trains are the slow noise,
bicycles, the acquisition of holy music.
Someone or nothing catches
a catacomb of moods.
Glass perhaps, between hallucinations.
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