my body is no longer my body long
but a short grunt
of atmospheric
twine
entangled in the long con
of birth
and the shambles of our every
dream...
the semaphore
on a dead wind
of  a flat Sea.

to rival the catacombs of your placid menagerie.

higher than brick kites
we.

and some of the absolute
squanders the never fails
and the dead end
lives at the end
of the block
where you're
mental.