Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Dead Hand

We started by dividing the universe
into what can and cannot be named.
Me, and everything else. And
Everything happened, especially you
who believed - to a fault - the shamed
distortions of our personal spaces.

The dictionary was one of them,
once completed, and eventually worn soft by the words
we read most: Is now broke.
We fucked a bit to keep it coming,
but what? I’m not sure.
- Me neither.

On the weekends, or occasionally
after work if the mood was gamey,
I’d chase old untellable things
that we’d failed to define or crammed
into small pronouns that meant little.

Hard work,
considering the ethereal ambitions
of what moved us back then, and now backwards
towards nothing. I never found anything,
but was glad to not come home.

All at once tired - smoked and stalked by the hunted
I curled up and slept in the dead hand
of a body of what that wept,
but would never be living.

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