Ottid
Belied in
the sky’s underworld-overworld
stormed
thoughts, beknighted in black lightening,
sir death
is suffocating in the dust of rages
blown
across the incontinents of a thought
that
whatever is, it isn’t here in the air, or there
deep in the
ground, but deep in here (taps head).
Inconsistencies
tumbling down the up escalator with
faggots of
light waxing lyrical in puns so dark
that they
congeal blood in the strata of the mind.
Mind you go
no deeper now. Do you hear me?
Echo’s echo
- Do you here me? me me me ...
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