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.


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.


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.


in spazz a brother sparks, in asking brother kindles;
able speak and spiddal stick is mannered to contend
the hit, play out the sombre dance in stints of chop,
herearch there slipping; once as found and twice as
willing to be sibling in the art, spastic paired or form
ed in spar of plastic measure overstas’ as is, is/was,
keeps being. he holds a candle to my heel and (seem
ingly) calls practice on perfection feeling close to
open ending – overbearing – underwhelming in er
asure of my shallow understanding in the moves as
I see fit, ultimate price as he is promising it – deliver
ance in the astonishing display of system grips, indiff
erence insisted as it takes too much of spits, roasted
to a crisp in dips of make it short: I’ll fix it. it ends.


Life, on the edge of split.
a breath becomes intermittent
in stint of passing trend,
a hand from the end of break
in acheing swell, a cut not bruising.
name and body I keep using to
abuse myself with; dying with
the thought of taking leash
to level next, submission to a
low extreme for tending tward
the nil. a bag of illness I
feel safe to keep as full as I can
carry, heavy to the shoulder
blades I bury deep in flesh,
coil to a perfection. round in
coarse and threaded noose,
tight upon the neck that uses
choke as an affective verb,
hands in beard as hands deserve
to cup of what keeps going. like
life on the edge of stiff,
twitch and wet with suicide spit:
end, and all that comes with it.
me, on the ledge of –


Think karim, think pain of effort:
extra lb, sticking elbow; gains from hell
and predilecting over live to tell the crowd
of it, legged and lagging heavily and heaving
as you go, rough and huffing up the blow in
contientious dose, portentious pretension;
an offer being offered in mid-mediocre
tension, post-transcendent ere post-actively
precising parent harms, poor receptive charms,
charletting. blood is the colour of you calling
out for having put to ink what won’t dilute in
simple terms, on basic techings: a to lack and
l to hack as I remain uneven.