This bleak fucker comes pulling his attendant soon-to-be corpse up the street,
eyes dripping,
mouth foaming,
screaming “e pluribus unum, bitches;”
and some kind of world allows this to happen,
and the figures all march in line;
endless, endless lines;
lines all drawn up around everything,
and up and down,
and circumlocution avails itself attuned to negativity flows;
triumvirate nonsense emblazoned on the disrespected uniform of my psychic decline.

Glaring, shattering;
the imposition of your impropriety,
engulfed in flaming emptiness,
like a diseased cow howling in the night,
like a blade of cutting grass
and like a knife,
dissected
its insides,
and the world spilled out
and instantly died;
and everything is like this
if you just look a bit deeper;
and everything is like this
if you just look
deeper.

In manifest dustiness of the universe,
the cosmic
debris,
head-first jumped into
drain circles;
universes,
this contained by this,
trapped by presence,
elapsed;
ellipsed,
spiraling
down.

Rain falls from clouds
sometimes;
long silences surround
us from all sides;
the present moment is
all
it is
and all
it ever was
is is;
and it
is
it
is.

It Is It Is

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