Automatic #58

depth is an allusion I can ill afford

like putting your hand in a fire

at twilight

there is something romantic about it.


Late evening, the world gets up and stumbles around a bit…

I’m thinking of a girl I knew in Paris.

Was there ever a Paris? Brown eyes I remember yes, but a Paris?


There is/ where this all rings true/ no real light


Circumstantial evidence against the promise of an undoing.

Too much filament in the lamps

One gets dreamy around the edges

takes on new indistinguishable shapes

the heart of which pumps fuel like blood

through an already disappearing vein.


I’m better off then I was this time a thousand years ago.

Already the bones are filling up with sand

a sun somewhere overhead needs to be put out

of it’s misery.

I’m tired and need to unfold myself.



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