ζωημαντεια reveals that the living shake their heads in disbelief, while the dead reveal only decapitated chicken limb twitching of a repeat, thus the living are dis-believing that it might happen again, while the dead are past the nervousness of what's to be expected; the urban man overly ****** cannot see the elemental basics of a chicken's decapitated head, for him the elements are no more, ensnared by the atoms and the atomic hierarchy, but missing the fifth element man lives under, the electric, even walt whitman spoke of: my body electric; no insomnia near the camp-fire and aye to pirate's or shepherd's story, but as many dreams as insomnias living under the voyeurisms of the electric eye in neon and in pixel, a calculus division of narration into the infinitesimal nearing a schizoid-dualism of the one experiencing and relating: thus nearing modern fictive narration of not experiencing but nonetheless narrating to the only relation: a book of lies on a bookshelf of the many, but not the one.*

she's speaking all the grand
words that don't even
provide a cancerous centimetre
of genesis toward death,
because she's still her words
and a bottle of whiskey
is still a familiar leftover of
the day readily forgotten by me:
if she can replace the effects
of a bottle of whiskey without
moralising me she's welcome,
otherwise she's just another ideal
reduced to a poem, reduced to
a creased page with that monochromatic
masterpiece essence, if in colour we'd call a Turner,
but in black & white we'd call
the method of death for the poet,
rather than the work produced.