This is the passing. Traffic stop at the end of the block, where the gutter flows back onto the asphalt, and every split in the road overflows.

Do you remember the day we left? It was the end of Summer. It always is.

We closed the door and felt the world shrink. I reached for your face and found nothing but the surface of a mirror.

It stopped raining weeks ago, but the gutters keep overflowing.

master motor bearing and the tap tap tap tap tap

end of century summer sweats the tablecloth mixed iridescent spill mixed rancid cream mixed spilt milk mixed mother’s breast

entry the market aisles the aircon slick with dripping fats processed flesh working meats gotcha thumb! gotcha thumb!

plasticide yanks the chain blights the debt fifty-five to the triumph ever closer

above the clatter you let it happen you take out your wallet you scan your loyalty card you take two plastic bags a great machine turns grinding everything to dust above the clatter individual sensations collapse into one cacophony one cluttered ******* oceanic spectre of death

we’ve been here before the flat words the repetition the living death the sickness desire

how far stretch the pennies down

myself myself myself myself myself myself my

catastrophic death of all meaning
semiotic structure picked
unto

askew undoing the worthless match
over and over and over and over

upon coming to the exit and birth, beginning, origin of the supermarket, I had the vision I was pushing my own body out of the morgue/into the abyss.
sleek, ultra-modern, aseptic carrion floor, processed through checkout, aisles, background fuzz, and the pointless chatter of deciding upon this or that alienated labour product.
the worthless time, the bare destitution, the surging eyes fixed across a nothingness that reduced both you and i to economic ex--
a holy verification of existence together in this ******* astronomically ******* up world.

blood at my index, slit along the serrated edge of a tin, metal scrap, upon a mountain of flesh; empire, bread and sons.
mass, *****, incarceration, brand loyalty, ethical spending, assimilation; all wallets bleed the same.
my race, my class, my gender, my age; DIY elevator pitch.

there.s nothing left.
there.s no.thing lft.
there.s n.thing .ft.
th.re.s g.f.
h.re.
e.

fine thread through the arched belly of a bleached whale, blood mixed with the grease, and salt, and death.

earth over my lids
cold hum black stone
apathetic and thoroughly
out of myself

split my lip
without thinking
blood
down the side of my
headstone

open home
gutter bird
head apart, apart apart

all toil, toil
sheets and time

why’d you bring me here?