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I have run out the lot of language

the last lost shudders of a tongue pierced 

by bone where the blood goes

cold, where the atom splits

its shins and falls shaking to its knees

begging when, when, when;

When will it break and will it feel the ache

like i do, we go

cartwheeling down lanes of inevitability

still wearing these shackles of how we

break our backs to mend the cracks

and fill each strip with soil

transformed fleshlike as it is 

brought to a boil - from within

this is how entropy commits its original sin

carving the flesh as manifest of its first 

aberrant dream, screaming how, how, how;

...potent spirits have fermented now

the right poison to inject where we

peel back the skin of the sky

uncover too many dunes

and the ghosts gone to wander these

crevices of mind that are not only mine

 - yours as well - 

infested, they go to haunt

the houses there, 

that leak and snap from creation’s lack

and windows stare out from their souls

moaning who, who, who; full of holes now and seeking 

outward they glare

for what is lost not what is there

hearing violence in the corners

long past the lowering of liminal lids

these incendiary disciples who woo

ruin like crumbling stockades in the pillars

of scripture, sacrifice literature...

All stories are fissures

in created time and imagined space 

that gush and seep recycled soul

asking why, why, why;

Spin with it the magic thread of word and dread 

that stitches and binds the fractured parts

into the tired wounded whole--

but is never made nor meant to hold forever.

                Collaboration in Exquisite Corpse style, with Istaqa.

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