Tell me there’s a purpose.
No.
A severed head.
The self in departure.
Crossing a river.
Light beams fall through.
There are four walls that make up the emptiness of this room.
throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing
Language writhes.
I fail to find the contours.
Sharp and brittle, like the hop hop sting of minute glass.
pitter patter
arms thrown
out out, out out, out out, out
The word is power, signifier of a real that folds into itself irrevocably, perpetually.
I construct that which I speak, divorcing the imaginary and symbolic with a plunging knife.
God is born in ****** revolt.
Entangled in the penumbra of becoming, I birth the stranger that is myself.
Who are you?
A static noise.
Father breathing snow onto the mountain.
Hair, grey matted, a coarse empty palm.
Tell me the tale of withering.
White abyss.
The bifurcation of light from darkness.
The power of speech split totality from the world.
Purged death in freezing time.
brittle bones
circulation
a shutting door
still air
winter passing
A cool current that stutters like the clap shut of death.
I run but go nowhere.
Child crying in the empty hallway.
I speak the word but no one is there to hear it.
I circulate like blood.
Face pressed to the floor.
I repeat.
The word is power.
Tears staining my cheeks.
I am nothing but a swell.
The empty drone of the earth.