‘When people speak out in favor of a life of madness, they mean the cute, nice madness, not the disgusting or dangerous kind. The disgusting and dangerous kind is prioritized in language but not in life.’ — Aase Berg

The dash between shelf and life—why do you think I chose you?
I’m a cornice, a decorated projection at the heights of desire—
disenchanted and plastered for the sake of the walls. I’m off
blot at a speed before murder was just a concept—it only takes
a few minutes. I’m attached to the top floor yet down pitched
as I mark virtue. I mark from a hospital bed—they strapped
and pressed me as to why I needed care—in the car, in the kitchen,
in the office chair. They question why I hugged the shaking man
after the meeting—I beg them. I hoard. I’m a version of editing
archetypes and questioning why I’ll never be an inborn model.
I opinion—I but hope to mean we while the death poet becomes
me as I pump petrol into my car, my vehicle—my mouthpiece.
I lie down on a couch and complain about not having a couch—
yet I promised to be static—happy to live in the shed knowing
it’s further than what’s expected. I am threatening with passivity,
dissolving fizz—formerly still now. The crudeness of a rubric—
I mark essays, I mark essays, I mark essays. I mark. I am a mark.
I am marked with deadlines. I mark a high distinction when all
I need is credit—feedback with no response—just for beads.
Trying to investigate consequence and watering soil with spite.
It only takes a few minutes for the organs, the mud, the handlings
of conversations about the sours of milk—found, smelt and drunk.