…The wordless fingers, open upon like poisonous flowers to birth one million sequins of death, like a shattered pupil that knows no limit, yet perceives its own limits, in the meat of the sun, the fleshed fields are weaving their pulse through a striatae of empty sound, as if the sound had been erased, as the sky jack-knifes upon its own mutilations, (‘we see the scars in the overtures of night’), the terminal heart throws garlands to that same sky, an echo, no retort in the blindness feeding the absence of light, and in that absence of light, the absence of shadow, shut down, breath folding in upon itself, as if to mar the fatal discolouration of beauty, brutalized as the sky, its skin stripped bear and the body brutalized beyond recognition, neither sex nor identity are evident, as the winds gather the vague trace of acrid blood to the nostrils, as the walls snap-shutter down, like the walls of a grave into which nothing spills butt emptiness, light a cigarette, then, draw it in and toss the but into that finality, ocular-skull-roving-dead-eye, steel-drawn, the vapours of nothingness, an artefact, a fragrant shard of the abyss, close the eyes, there is no way from which and ever before there could have been, laughter has died in the alleyways where the mongrel children sleep, they sniff glue and are raped habitually, we were always this, there is nothing there, love drips like wax upon quivering flesh, the blade at the throat and the subtle kiss goodnight, death’s hammers wield their teeth with a certain hand, dying without colours, perhaps smiling, I would not lift up a child for fear that it would turn to dust in my hands, some say, these days, the hollow light is a womb of abstract voidal emptiness, where the appetite for death is found aptitude for burning away, never knowing, those poisonous flowers erupting like ejaculations of blood in the face of innocence, tooth or nail, the nails digging into the skin in rapture, or…something was lost yet was never retraced, ever to the irretraceable, like gestures, vapours of time arising like smoke from deathly fingers, in the dreaming after-worth, staggering headlong into the abyss, the bones also vapours, we cannot die enough in this, severed unto the other, wrenched apart from the absence of the other and the presence of the other object, hating what we love, loving in turn what is the object of hate, flesh against flesh, in conflict there its’ sense devours, the jack-knifing skull sees nothing, as do we, see nothing, the icy fingers, pass through the dark briefly illumined by death, nothing more…

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