I am a stoic pose in stop-motion
Twisting down Duchamp's steps.
Each scene slurring,
Stopping --
Blurring the paused sensitivity in me.
Me, standing nude
Atop an angled stair,
Baring in geometric curvature these expired sureties
I once wore with hanging whispers
On my hip-bones.
Descending on sharp-tongued toes, my footfalls
Are unrefined;
They become stuttering secrets
Senseful intermittence cannot capture.
But your articulate shoulders
That had held my swaying legs
Are gone.
I trip,
Every unlacquered edge of sweetheart prose
Bloodying my face,
Scraping a preempting denial in my palms;
Beautiful bruises draw up your words
In spiteful stubbornness,
As if they will permanently
Stain my skin.














Comments
--
It's nothing more than a serial killer suicide
the procession stampedes over me till dreams take place
i am nothing after losing my spot in line
i will never catch up to you again
the acute ankles carve into my spine
it is not over
as quick as it began
a march of the souless
fed by the dying
or dead
the human machine
will remain endless
faceless
ever decending
--
It's nothing more than a serial killer suicide
--
It's nothing more than a serial killer suicide
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