The N-Group Burial

This is like: my son’s body and I say it because a part of it begins with
Me too. In original seam, invisible thread of parting – fold from where
All started is the flood they warned would come, begins arriving;
Prophecy of harm inside me that feels different of its form, aware
That its condition travels (mostly) through this air: a void between us.
There is a code that must be followed in the efforts of creation;
I, alike all askew gods, prefer to stray from the norm.
As good in honest smile lies close, the weight of distance carries over;
These are features no other could father this well, bear in sporadic
Showing of its better as bane – at times tame – others barely.
Infant unprepared to face a burial in arms, deliver from this corner
An allotment of its burden – poor description of our placement –
Small account of how he’s suffered at the hands of all I’m saying.
So now they come to the graveyard and pray, ask for forgiveness or,
Punishment in wounded shapes – some bitter aspect of wrong in
Gape in respect to what has happened. I tell them: and the silence
Can’t offend them. This is the space to pretend I have answered
All their prayers.

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Coathroat, Coatlicue

if this is my cue to resist, I will take it –
I emerge from bluest of said ice,
most textured of transparent –
and less out of pressure than want
the figure that I have resolved
to lay waste to takes shreds
and lost specks of life in you.
so that sombre in staring down knees,
the pulse of impatient that breathes
is also the measure I see I must
fit down to absolute size, absolve
from some punishment leading to
certain yet unjust reward.
as mother of sunburst and war
breeds comfort from holding down
awe to effective/disastrous result:
tumultuous, ending.
and drinking of pouring off palms
this liquid takes tangible form;
a fountain is left to provide for.
the origin turns on its source
delivers intentional harm and
what’s worse: supports it.
through punch and lick,
device and trick play scathing
wage, inflict of anything worth
having. until in swollen tongue
it speaks; the honour of this art
forbids all possible manner of slur,
the impediment means we prefer
to be silent. as from forced growth
we learn to cut throats; then
feel we deserve to repent.

Pastel Cub (dark variant)

Beige of leg, beige of scent
Beige of hack and temperament across his breaking chest,
An aching back – bewilderment – a basic urge ascending
Through a wall of thist and smoke, pretend and caring of
A mass event in stoke, extinct/exciting – who I am and what
Keeps hiding at a surface from white skin, black eyes, grey
Teething. In a way of red and brace, unprepared yet unev-
ading of responsible by stash, to try and not resist if (through
some miracle) occurs; this love, it speaks in colours. Pastel
For short, commando shorts in classic form, washed off quip
And uniform. As of tight against its place, my shape it does
Condition and replace – if on[ly] by thinking – of an ailment
Revealing frantic figure in the flesh, sordid instrument in
Making. Rage of man, rage of left again – pervading.

Vitamin R+

do the palms ever itch?
do you ever feel yourself slipping from
thought to sick obsession, urged to be the
privileged as done, defied – retried,
apologetic wonder bit down once and twice
and everytime it seems yes me, I’ll fail,
this blood it feels like everything will be,
in time, consumed. so I place a cold hand
by your wound(s), make sterile what
virile concession could turn from not
feral, but: wild, uncontrollable.
by taking of the medicine we’re thinking
does not work it does not hurt us.
which is why, through rolling r,
we realise.

madhorse.trojan [diskophore]

Frequent terminology includes (but is not limited to)
a basis of repetition,
the breaking of a p a t t e r n in this series of graphcurls,
type-errorrings – fist of tearing unit spreading worlds
and weights apart. Books in this example have always
been a sort of last resort, a way of rush expanding from
incision to the stream, blood not good not pumping;
ageing down by thinking just what should this do to
me, should I follow/keep on running? as each corner
turnt is only loose contouring as it starts, bulletswift
and surely taken much too much to heart but then so
WHY does this affect us? A blink in the drink is all it
takes, a simple slip in ease that makes the Beast of
all the difference. It is madness (so they say), and
also brilliance; distance is the only way of knowing
for a fact.

Satobash

Tab – let skip the form – steer clean the whit
from whiting out, black even further; equal
in the normal full of evil empty of; thought
a rebel but devoid of honest id-eology,
largest ego set upon the IMILLUSION
IMALLOWED, I’m a fool and you the crown
of ivy I shall claim, awesome in a way and,
failing me. All titles – let roam upon – are
heavy. As your hey in three II tells me hang
in there too, virgin water sober and attuned
to twin shear, demi-head: all-demanding.
Have in let slim of sorts, statuate in boxer
shorts, eroding. I say fight! (or go down
drinking); I say fine but keep explaining
what it takes of me to care, see you here
for all I fear is you afraid of loneliness.

Neurolinguae

6s plural span, the word relinquishes. by the thread tongue
of this dread one head is on: brawn upon the man enough to
twist against the flow, go upon unknowingly in turns of teach
and learn, flinch and take it – love it comes and we regret it
as confessing to a pleasure is the basest of all urge, strongest
of all weaknesses admitting of its tough, it’s restless. ripped,
but not really interesting he embarrasses all notion of scarred
first, last to best and best to worst in neurotragic thirst, evol-
ute congenerate in ingenious disguise, the tracks it takes to
find me in a pool of mush and rash, crush and crashing; tattoo
blue in self-effacing stroke of fade, master seeking up! in trade
and down to single detail. 6 stitches long, the oil replenishes.
by the shoulder of this other, brain within the flutter of a fetish
I can ask for is this back as I hit back (and you hit harder); slip
to say what shame is after and feel sheepish to accept the offer.
bruise that’s put upon me and made fair as breath is only what
this body must reject, what its counterpart encourage in a man
ner of so saying. mind, the sharpest weapon someone stupid
may produce, my enemy reduce me to the shortest of my lurid
thoughts, least heartfelt words: most clear intentions.