I got to make the least of this;
long words of mouth
entangled
at the molecular level;
shreds of stories,
partly lost,
partly patched together
in dylanesque
casts
solution
of illusion,
disillusion
Jag andas i mörkret
Kroppar häver
som kuttrar
i svartsvallen
The night is full
of Russians
in armchairs
I need a safe body
There are no safe bodies
Time slithers
down the toilet,
down the throat,
down all the languages
I got to make the least of this;
the identity I use
Hur många är bekräftade döda
sedan Homo sapiens uppkomst,
i tinnitusens tunna efterklang av cymbaler
och vattenledningssus?
I vinterns långa släpljus
dansar ansikten
över horisonten
I got to make the least of this;
the boomerang of charity,
the glass domain of self-awareness,
the rocky road of individuality,
the empty cravings
of bottomless hunger
I got to make the least of this;
the splinters of broken thoughts,
the naked thirst for the opposite gender,
the desperate clinging to this, that
Is it sensible to ask
why evolution blooms
in jolly conversations
between Christmas and New Year's
'round the kitchen table on the bottom floor
before noon
while I lie flat on my back
in The Great Ship Of Dreams
in the bedroom upstairs
scribbling this
in a notebook
with a pencil short from usage?
Language is being kneaded
as the pillar of air sings
through my windpipes
and my jaws creak
while the transparent tower
of time and place dances
like West Texan twisters
across consciousness
I got to make the least
of this