Terminus of the world crossed to deliver its
whimper.
That whimper put to color...building blocks
lost in space.
A carmine dusk overtaking the blood's circuit...
spilt, spilt, spilt.
Earthen batter, sickly pools dried to raven-black.
Living pigment of broken flesh projected to
The Absolute.
The Void looks out of your windows...its
residency, as levels of formlessness streak
their way up and down them.
The very frame of Art itself perturbed as a
channel gone off the air...1970...you looked
out of your windows.