stand(ing) here alone in the dark like a head of tack pirouetting away to no music - only acrid scruple of this being with and not being with, one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in the garden as a steady arm of light stills in its mouth, a flowering dark. it is only 3 o'clock in the morning and the heat clambers the wall of the vacuously atrabilious moment of just plainly existing. the slender harlequin of moon, like an old lover having its own way with me, a child's yelp coming home — the hermetic air crushing the light, slivering it revealing all the ensconced phantasms too commonplace like a fork in the road that i know, or the wayward metropolitan that teems with a concatenation of roads and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma, receiving the star of aloneness, vacillating between place and placelessness telling this originary of repossessing the moon with a hand in my hand, pressing a question of where have you been all the raging while.