Poem 3
Sep 17, 2021
Distilled into imbibed/ing objects, we are boxed into appearances.
It is not even a tangent from our trysts with illusion, doubles breed everywhere.
From our purest nests the day and all suffering henceforth are the cheapest textures.
Singular attempts at being extra-terrestrial render us down to the fat of fashion.
From this point we are exposed and exposure, ringlets of reflex sizzled up and slipping down our breasts, across our balls, into our rectums.
As the purest of veneers, masticated in perpetual orbit, we now shuffle along the moebius strip.
