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
