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cut up, digested, pre made: the ease upon which, I suppose, I would build,
that under whose weight I choose to imagine my revolution, the lazy, crawling
secretive kind, the cynical and bright october and july, that which makes sense
uninspiredly because it came to mind, an original reframing of the ever fainter
regurgitating of every mess and every bead from a gloried past; the always reason
for which I could and never did end my life, life as a pulsating macrophage, a
homunculus without a dad, skirting daintily the understanding of the non-significance
of the few years passed as afterbirth and shirking at the responsibility of understanding
that that is that. I need coffee and fear.
I need not forget.
