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Old blue mountain big.
Trees suck life and bloom red hot.
Poor cottages quiet.

Haloed yellow lamps pulsating away
the soaked night into the darkness
where all moments trickle into

I stand here like at the beginning
of space and time, rolled out straight
and endless,
indistinct, smudged together with the darkness,
my silence merged with the quietude
trapped in the drops of the night’s sound

On hums the steady night its rainy tune.

Something in life lives on death—
Life is what it eats, and what eats not is dead.
I found me dead on the dusty river bed,
damp in a muddy pool of slithery fluids of love
warm in the last moaning movement of love,
slimy, sticky, and fuming like a horse.

I stand watching me watching me,
a god at a loss who to adopt whom.
The broken hands on the clock tower
tick away an eternity between two periods.

Suspended from the sky by an absent rope of fate,
your unsure soles—grip lost on the precarious cliff-top—
chilled by the strange feeling of like nothing under them,
flicking themselves against the weathered flint floor
whose loose, scraggy chips leap like broken petals into the endless abyss,
you remain swinging there—a balance beam—between two worlds

The push of just an eagle feather or down
or a cranky freakish breeze to break the inertia,
a quirky hammer stroke to hit the nail home. Unhomely

bitch girl lady

Eating and drinking life off the book
like processed food and beverages,
and popping life like tablets for fever and headache

Wisdom sells like Cokes and mosquitoes get fed
on your wise juice. Swarms of them recorders and
humming sedative love songs you fear not to listen to.

Unliving to gain hell of damn weight