It is to be lived in, and loved– or abandoned.
But lived neither loved nor abandoned?
The parked car windows, with the same effect,
of all things apart-together, connected
without suffocation. In the bus-stop
glass my frame, in the blue garment
I chose to match my eyes; a reflection
of tired feet resting in the shallows
of island vacations, white supremacy
and fish as bright as butterflies. It has been
joked all children arrive at school
Butterflies and leave as Caterpillars.
Monotony of leaf-devour, the straight lines,
the lines which guide the flow, the traffic,
the wires, and the holes, lived in
and loved, or filled in, and left
to the refractory thrill of the soul
at its hour of physical death,
death: in the polls, Death of racist markers
in pretended functions, software’s emulsion,
server malfunctions, of what was there before
04 about myself, who never cares to listen:
the darkness is coming from the centre of the light.
The president isn’t the pope has never been
the queen forget it, all : it is to be lived
being eaten by the distances between the
steady oh we all go on the downhill in the end,
captured as a cartoon by the Artist His imagination.
These are His people, in the rain,
because that’s the only time we have
available, the Mower’s catcher off,
messy, but quicker.