Too hot. Tousled paper-thin music. 23. Nothing else matters but the conscious: psychic, physical — I arrive, take space, therefore I am. Nothing hurts deeper. Stays. Dagger to gut. Always, the dogs are, always. Much harder for the soul to plead in front of inviting cathedrals. Fire in this side of the Earth. Running. Out of time. Running out of time.
                     Crossing criss-cross of cars.
    Curious cat gets run over, bones break,
    brains splatter, blood dries faster than
    water.
          Flattened by things: menials, stereo cool. Subcompact breathing space. Clinging on to dangerous playthings is
recherché to the average. Death is nice.
Twice of it, better. Breathe fast. Live faster—
Short moments believable. 23 ~ 55. An equivocal calling to mind. Gamblers here
have no parlay. It's senselessness against
another throb of it. Nothing accrues for
greater victories. Slam the ride, deface
the labyrinth. Take it. Ride fast. Do it slow. Pace is everything. The tempo is infinite,
dance wears away like chip on the old floor. Out of cigarettes.
         It is splendid enough to remember
the horses that jumped past
fences of pain than having to mount
   them in all separate mornings,    severances, all that.  There's no magic
in farewell. There's no lie in that.