whether it matters anymore to look to look
to count who of us is fuller of night does  
sensibility disappear every time it appears

i have been called upon more than once and understand
that the most poignant statues of Pygmalion are
built on misery and

how much more can my feet disappear in insomnia
through my imagination's door a myriad of beautiful things are hidden that make me cry i am so touched

how much distance is needed between
three decaf days to
still feel it feel it

i decapitate my presence
my existence leads its own life: with a curious
personality a somehow experiencing courtesy

ergo my inner landscape: conversations between an
infinite essayist and a
grounded grounded devilish being

i categorise everything like
the sound of nails and crystal chalice and angel voices stray in a
circle of dirt and head on my chest

good morning to all in your lines
lick your fingers clean fiercely let me
remark something of desiring value:

how are those nests you all hold high above your heads
i can see handfuls of spider webs
i sit nailed into a wall