is it to no fault but the square tumult?
the porous belt strung around my waist.
i am no more i am no more i am no more” —myself
Fine, here we are
The madness increases.
The spiral, terrible circles and night.
Venetian plaster and my hands stomach
an uncertain birth. My hands tremble you see
with the purest longing- fingers mirror the
provoked will of crayons grasped.
I long for white, and blues- bring me
the sun for these pages- bring me the
mule hours of work. exhaustion.
I resist your sleep.
And here it is,
Right hand construction.
Left hand structure.
That which escapes is birth.
It is conviction led by abandonment.
It is consistency in blindness.
The human discipline.
The old symbols destroyed.
All in the name of the sublime.