(train/desk jam) Day nine

Day nine

bloodshot wings spreading from the cage of bone

attempting the sundial – busy tone

salmon arabesquing into raven                  half-seen / half-known

beatings in the tympanum                            (administered by yours untruly)

after sufficient cooling of the hooves in the hypothalamus or beholding cell

to be followed swiftly by an electroshock session

in the substantia innominata

torn to the corners by a night full of mares

teeth bleached by endless individual drops of water

bled to the gills and gasping for air         guarded by

one highly-strung archer drawing light lines with crossed hairs

who curls his lip at the screamed confessions –

“Narcoanalysis? fucking amateurs…”


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