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white mist like sandpaper,
our eyes corrode quickly
like time sped up.
the universe seen from the outside looks like melted plastic shapes against black pavement,
inert and without life.
land of white sand;
wet with blood.
 i bury my body with yours\
buried with these hands
a blinding flurry
we burn beneath the sun
man has not won, man has not won


listening to Cocteau Twins and Le Monte Young, taking pictures of your roommate's open mouth, sleeping in public, spitting blood into snowbanks (it's my new palette), small repetitive movements (drawing), running your hands through your greasy hair, trapped in rooms, painting on milk cartons and cigarette packages, long black robe dragging on the floor, muffled sounds, warbling vocals, unintentional reverb, favorite words, imaginary bands, the culmination of all your greatest ideas, not taking credit for this pile of debris, hiding your signature in a public space



give up



we were still working

collected all the information of the world like it was loose glitter after a party, swept unavoidable with dust and bits of grass or gravel --

An Elegy for the Loose Prismatic Splinters: gauze fields, crystalline stilts, columns to support your heavy head

(meanwhile the planet rotates inaudibly in the background, and we dance slowly towards the future:)

Small Tombs for Our Unknown Desires
(contact mic your track marks)