purgatory is going to be sick on its path,

unable to hold down being used.

they all end up there, where?

purgatory doesn't even know.

it's the heaviness of their visualizations,

the present's crushing half-light.

so purgatory is a banished overseer, that

has no substance save for their

visualizations.

black & white images struggling in

swampish murk--with brilliantly vivid

gasps.

people, places or things one thinks

they've committed to memory suffer

this--I myself get high off that spookiness.

spy purgatory stray from its path like a

doomed Romantic.

I visualize our back brick wall facing the

garden at night--with the certitude no one

is observing it.

the crept summonings that strain to see

as above ground, so below.

does the impish rush I get--lay into its

brick, alter its stalemated energy?

I know so.