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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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The fences are covered in must
Shriveled throughout their adherence to fur and fairies Scribbled with centuries-old stories of mankind Mankind shrunk under binoculars Mankind in a loop with a name different from its other portraits Nonetheless All of them conjured in the same definition of shape It’s past tense reproduced Somewhere in a bulb Or not Who knows which the round is? Us, out of their massive mania Or them, outside our microscopic one? The torturers and healers, two opposite-looking breeds All sat together at the same last supper All winners All people Outside me Us Somewhere incoherent with nothing but an oxygen mask on Unaltered by the cries and interspersions of time Watchers of a vocabulary we’ve come to learn the words of Speakers of consonants we have not yet to scrape reality of B-level pantomimes Builders of sciences inside a dolly house Vicars of recipes and clay gourmets I I’m forging fences just to see what I need to escape My favorite playground My deadliest playground A medicine woman deprived of corpse Who belittles her blankness around swollen red dots Just for the thrills of seeing the scab reformed And the moon restored in the smooth amplitude of a face A self-killer, a self-curer My repetition for no part I The puppet always with a fake thermometer on.
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