upon coming to the exit and birth, beginning, origin of the supermarket, I had the vision I was pushing my own body out of the morgue/into the abyss.
sleek, ultra-modern, aseptic carrion floor, processed through checkout, aisles, background fuzz, and the pointless chatter of deciding upon this or that alienated labour product.
the worthless time, the bare destitution, the surging eyes fixed across a nothingness that reduced both you and i to economic ex--
a holy verification of existence together in this ******* astronomically ******* up world.

blood at my index, slit along the serrated edge of a tin, metal scrap, upon a mountain of flesh; empire, bread and sons.
mass, *****, incarceration, brand loyalty, ethical spending, assimilation; all wallets bleed the same.
my race, my class, my gender, my age; DIY elevator pitch.

there.s nothing left.
there.s no.thing lft.
there.s n.thing .ft.
th.re.s g.f.
h.re.
e.

fine thread through the arched belly of a bleached whale, blood mixed with the grease, and salt, and death.