Sunday, July 27, 2008


Rotating spark in the flame of discord.

Everything that is left from you:
Bundle of unasked questions
And pages of fat books too empty to ever be written.

Touch me, Universe...

Like a drop of blood from the eye of space,
Perfect point of perfect geometric object,
and what else could you be than monument to the fallen in some ancient, too ancient war
waged for some sorrowful doomed desire.

Soulbeats rather than heartbeats.
Momentum of extravagant footnote.
Unrecognized manifestation of essentiality.

Space ligature is too weak, and time ligature is inexorable. Not even the shape of dream matter could withstand the leavening of the only word I could divulge to you right now.

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