By | 1 June 2022


I always thought beauty was important.
I always hated anecdotes. I only ever cared
for power, how I might
take it in my hand. I never want to write
about my mother. I love you, and one day
you’ll die. That’s the right approach.
Landscape of my affections,
It’s the thought
That counts, or the contour of it,
It’s your vagueness I admire.
I could drop a coin in your brain and it would bounce.
I’m sick of aphorisms too, but what else is there?
Short, high-pitched sounds,
Tram accidents of the heart. Pain is just an expression,
A way to survive this sharp spike
in sentiment. How many angels
dance on the pin
of your head? It’s unjust
how many guys are up there,
in heaven. I’m a
robber of dead men, a ‘delight’. It’s dreamy,
like a dream is a trick. What the mind conceals
the soul will out

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