outside on the dirty bench we eat oysters and walnut bread in a dream of the oysters and
walnut bread we would eat.
the constant dust gets us down
sneezing having to smiling the whole time
fill paper bags or else hard jars
dark and gripping—
nothing the airless
grievance the daily hourly
once complete the completing will recommence
eye for an eye fragment for
deliberate fragment something
for nothing the
the distance from reason there
go the years there goes the logic of
lengths we would go to.
A throaty image.
It’ll hit us so hard we’ll throw up our mothers’ milk.
Smiling the whole time noiseless dawn: Cinnamon
is finite. Memory is the ugliest of the Muses. These are putatively adequate and commensurable systems of exchange.
Death is the picture of dad breaking on everything else
Thursdays go like this
Is this casually permanent or none of
It is both
It is neither
It was clearly poorly timed Resources seemed endlessly diverted This loop
is called feed
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