Now I live in the shadows
where light is electric
and time is just a number
that rests on a wall
Nobody knows me
my friends and my family
are as far from this city
as Washington Square
We find our voices in the predawn. They blink in the crestfalls of migration, twin rasps to the raving madness. We scrape our knees against the worn world thread at a time, sliding awkwardly through the ages, ridding ourselves of the night's skin and truncated echoes.
So, turmoil, we turn dazed in dream, and recover our sundry silence and radial hue in cor and sultry limbs. This happenstance we mire. This sought sleep coital warmth conspired to pour in us.
We find our voices in the clasping havoc and disgrace, the bleeding ulcer thronging in caprice. And in the pale magenta your Antigone confides the labiled, blue desires running fabric in the blindly cast fold.
All this continuousness, this buoyant inertial being called cunt, would seem an indelible weight from shift to worried stem. Call this catatonia Sunday, call it antithesis or misfortune.
Call us twilight and abdication, the sickle and the suffering.