Faces are landscapes;
topographies
reminiscent of each other

This world is Everton,
in which I seep out constantly,
leaving sub-atomic traces,
veils of matter & time, behind,
while, simultaneously, adding on
to this form, fattening mind & intent;
this fuzzy shape
in its brief alienation

In Everton nothing ceases,
nothing lasts,
but shapes up,
blows off

Everton is atmospheric Neverton,
vocal cords & eardrums,
shaping up, seeping out;
a beginning that always starts,
and ending that never stops

and somewhere
an apartment opens a space
for random thoughts, eerie recollections
and the deceased, the goners
in unbreathed volumes of muggy air,
silent rooms
sucking up spare sounds
from surrounding air spaces;
used-up, de-breathed by taciturn tenants;
muffled voices, clanging porcelain,
soughing sewage pipes,
the screeching & yelling of inconsiderate intercourses,
banging-shut front doors & kids running up stairwells

This world is Everton under the stars,
where faces are landscapes,
reminiscent of each other