last night i dreamt i killed someone famous
when this morning came, it was not impossible

we shift from gestural to graphic
discretion is useless

aggregate numbering
why we've stretched our necks

a pendulum swings tightening the tension in memory
the spinal cord and its gelatinous membrane

arc in choreography of the performative
you're going to keep your appointment

sexless--the periphery of lip
please refrain from picking yr carcass

half-used, the descent toward the tip
the final chapters of modernism will be written in blood

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two plump turqoise parasites

insert blow-job scene

here is your own moon-poem

precise strokes

you must forget to breathe

that oceanic feeling, what language remembers

shadows are often seen quietly orating

to visual decoders soft inside addiction
once your assumptions have grown
almost sexless in a mirage of moonlight
the anaesthetic worn off we adumbrate your larynx relations
collapsing the grid

the strange woman is in yr garden

the smell of lubricant on a freckle