the chiming dance of many previous bodies
swirling a palm leaf's sexy blade in ash
smeared to be washed away
on written stone. These secrets seep in
seamlessly to bone.
I am the virus in my own system.
Plates wobble on the sticks around
my pillar of blood. The obelisk
between my ribs has a rabid circuit.
Electrified chain link fences
undulate in my latest sunglasses.
Life is the chalk stick of raging dreams:
the cut tornado is organized. The entrance
to the storm disrupts the storm
kissed imperceptively. The eels
of my burned irises have swum
on a wordless plan. The rivulets
of pained rivers flow down
the sown seams of my hands.
Skeletons prance my roof-ridge
grinning sand for the bashed
servant of light I will never be.
This shield of programmed ants
is all I need. The seed turns
in the exit's cancelled breed.
My ghosts can breathe.
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