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Aug 2020
i had followed you so far
that we began to find groups
of words like
clusters of trees; growing bright
and full of
upturned lights
with the spaces in between as well
that get into branches, blank,
cutting out peices from
children's white;

(before they felt the time,
    worrying
about being right)

here, our footprints secrete
star-spangled leaves on purple night
pavement

and reflect in increasing spirals
the distant lights
of office building Windows who
speak their sterile, asking insides in
slight proud, and slight
welcoming
peices of : life :

what life really is

people on phones and skirts and and scratching foreheads, and scratching paper, and offering jokes like slightly drowning lotus flowers, and flirting; and when Christmas smells like paper clips;
all the things we would feel on the sides
of our bodies like slow sliding warmth
dipping orange,
as we walked around outside of them

making some new paths, taking, the light
they gave and creating, we think,
some sparkling land in insurrection;;

but got confused as to who
was following who eventually; when
the helter skelter goes down forever
we lost the top
spinning
and
with enough stepping back over footprints
in the snow: to hide the way we go
 
remember it snowed that one day when we lied together; and we were so in love i hardly had to look out the window; paris could have been covered in tiny breaking pools of reflecting light, and it wouldn't have mattered; because your arm had its weight
embedded on mine
but:
leaves get crumbled if you, stamp on them enough
[we shouted at humpty dumpty right before he tipped his
fall { because
some thing inside us still believed in beauty }:
that testing breakability, has a tendency to
**** things
up]
 
but we were too late, his mouth in an O of surprise as gravity
did it's thing
[it always does no matter how many times you
dreamt that
we could
fly]
; & so too eating up
the breadcrumbs that turned out;
in the end;
were of limited resource
 
and the spaces emerging magic from clusters of tree/words
were sunk again into the coded nets they
'd been in the beginning
[precisely; with intent, my dear with as little
expense towards ambiguity as they can
possibly
measure]
 
this memory necessary in all these humans
picked like pods screaming that it's
against their nature
 
intrinsic to the half forgotten instincts
cultivated and esteemed and afforded and
carried through
and blamed and stimied
consistently :
 
that one must never be crazy enough
to believe that one's art would
ever really
be reality
Timbuctu
Written by
Timbuctu
91
   preston
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