my grandmother too, is love.
in the weeks before she died
she writhed.
in pain and suddenly,
her attention shifting inexplicably
though no less pain it was in inner diastrophisms of the falseness carved in masks she shuddered forward all herself
at 97 and in shining reservoirs of urgency
she went through bouts of chanting:
'i love you' moans and 'so much, so much'
and 'thank you, thank you, i love you' for whatever hours
there were visitors
to hear.

her cat still slept on her head.
she with all her flaws expressed it to the point of drymouth,
perfecting mantras never known so well
her brink of death an apex in our hearts




















.

On the brink of mirth, lip split vertical,
bleeding surgical mask
Tapping Nelson's cask,
sipping static ash
Electronic clash, striking through,
silence moves around you like
  clouds
Life sprints away in leaps and bounds,
bound to end up somewhere,
  bound to fate
Juniper seperates me from rocky track,
don't wan't to go back,
  sick of drymouth walking
A boat headed south,
all the teeth knocked out your mouth,
  doubt becomes despair
We pretend that we care,
but our actions bare
  different conclusions
A fusion of different contusions,
condition: Human,
       most likely
  dooming: Oursleves