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the dredge wears you down
dig it back through the earth
the clock dragged through the soil
no face purely its own


how far back for that?

the wild mother scrapes the cave
children with grown up hands
looking for origins
wrinkled eyes

grasping at the newest flesh

super market baby
divinely robbed
placed on the couch

the new girl tires of the old man
a young one wouldn't treat her to so many gifts
or love her enough to shoot her in the back

and your revolution
must it be staggeringly new?

write the expected outcome
refuse them their malleable natures
the water taking more earth
the costumes growing tighter
authenticity called into question

the celebrity scandal cleaner than one thought

and therefore tainted

for the girl in the fire is not enough to take notice of

revolutions are remembered
they ride out on fireworks

but enough ale shows the empire in its future rags

and long before that, there was a prophet

fire smoke burning matters of time
glazed violence
savage as a strict geographical trait
and pigment has something to do with it as well

and you're starting to forget
the reason
that you

draw your axis on the void
spin the chances into spiral stairs
don't lose your eyes in the reflections

the superstitious believe
and the profane believe not to

and now?
the real now?

the time that no other time seeps into
cracks in the windows sealed
the days before not seething inside you

that time
do you know this time?

dredge the ashes from the fireplace

reassemble them

try to make them what they were
before the matter broke


into all the other author's opinions

through your two way mirror
with your lust for accolades
claim the revolution

deny them the flexibility
inherent in their fingers

saving the calendar
forgetting what it felt like in your hands
at the time

attractive nonetheless

never wanting to fall asleep slowly
time without action loses its axis
and the images drown as they try to prove
that it is their right now
more important than today
than laying your head down
and savoring the texture
of the sheets
now feeling too tight across your toes

the old days stronger than when they happened

happened being finite
events being finite

never bleeding into what is



texture is now


propulsion in the realm of the infinite


reflections of self


back through the soil
clutch at the substance
make your case for history
excavate the division
and hone it
to precision

too much weight on the structure
the retreat is the flood

we want to believe that the world arrived with us

our bones have come floating through various oceans