she would never rhyme nodule with module nor try to conflate the two
that would be poetic suicide. she’s seen a lot of deaths type across her screen
running from the rules and tripping over feet. don’t kid yourself, marianne,
the earth doesn’t sanction face plants. what are we measuring here
things that are sporadic and doomed? consigned to novelty.
she can’t for the life of me track less scientifically each moment’s import
and piece together a framework around a hole a long hole a meandering
whole, sure we committed poetic suicide, fully cognizant of our crime.
only a sane person would leave it lying like a scene fini
corpsed so many times and so long ago were those instances
carefully investigated. or at least that’s what they tell me, marianne,
laid pretty, vestigial (a word, a w), less than a sense
chaotic or dead. long live the queen. the
fox hunt commenced at a quarter past three, the hounds’ retort
found fancy dans ready to resurrect meanlings toll
please accept her manifesto pure as submitted in time.
if you need more i’ll refer you to blind spots of which are an indeterminate number that multiply rapidly until they realize they are dots.
how could you presume to ask what could be useful to me? as if i am any kind of cypher into the things i cannot see.
the fuck are you to come blanking in to my limited space-time and expect me to politely ask what’s going on? who suggested i wanted an association with another unreality? the question period over i’m interested in only this:
there was a sense once of things that overcame samneness
i’m sure you remember it, an added benefit to boredom
before terror was a defining motivation. and you were there, marianne,
forgotten. history hasn’t pussyfooted around with memories.
the fancy dan forest has much to recommend it. there are trees falling and getting back up again.
the arrow shot in the air must have found a limb.
you took great liberties with my future intentions. i suppose you expected me to clean up the mess.
what kind of maids do you hire before you know them? a sort of client who shoots arrows into the wind.
what is left (or found) is open to interpretation,
something to roll over in your fingers and imagine
a time before all the trees were gone. and you propped them up, marianne,
even though they were dead. there are many shortcuts to infinity.
