what horrors this life gives

so much about taking orders

so little about what we need

our tiny hands swollen since birth

singed or still burning

hitting each other

all of us skinned raw

hurting ourselves with our hungers


so much for what we want

so little left here to live on

this browser crawling around

the dissipating web

like hands together

this browser funding

some kind of hypothesis attachment


our phones our miniature worlds

each of us lives a tiny little bit

in supposition our hands together

our knitted brows turned out

hitting each other

striking out


holding on fractionally

threadbare moments

of bedroom magnitude

bedroom moments

of threadbare magnitude



empty touching

we still live in

no joy left in

simply leaving a light on

pitching our voices thus and so

as if we had any ideas

as if we knew something


alone we can imagine

this is somehow grand

imagine ourselves

acting as if this is all

so impossibly grand