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Sunday, 24 November 2013

Fresh Swarms

he realised we are an individual but I 
is any number and so are we



whorling starlings of her skin her moral clarity flying
with two thousand excited biceps dreams an itself indistinct 
but growing out of her enemies' fingers out of their lights and 
their imposing communicative organs entwining eight hundred 
in simple lies and the sun orbiting the earth as is common self-evident sense,
anger at those fuckers absorbed and laughed off to the bank



moral clarity expelling with abstractions of fear and hate
the horizon shifting to a side that makes our heads spin let’s
kill these fuckers evil fuckers and air still attempts to 
fill my blocked lungs as I barely breathe    he can’t even see what
he wants because it’s self-evident that the sun is still above the horizon



like this like that like the other
blank wall blank screen sometimes a bullet in the face
is a temptation stuttering in a chest and a belly clenched



an impersonal material structure of social relations and 
she is hungry and sick and scared and it is bad for her and she 
can't even see     anybody     infected with them




in a tearing night sheets are grating his skin

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