is what we are,
nameless as death,
murky as life,
that we should call it something between
monster and majestic Lord
sprawled on a filthy floor.
In a bathroom she moans
with a mantra
too young,
rusty waves rising in
deja vu, squeeze, contract
she sweats, she drowns,
a universe is dying
a universe is being born.
(In a dumpster a figure in tatters and mud is singing Marriage of Figaro)
A wailing dune, a falling star,
a shrill cry echoes from afar,
from a window world,
he plunges into a dirty light
with no memory of life:
He’ll freeze to death tonight.
The slime from the womb of an animal
This transit is chugging along.
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