This organ in my body
that may or may not be
made of ink,
that swirls and protrudes in fear
when near joy. Maybe it shoots out
octapi that squirm and climb
ceilings paved with
glass in an attempt to get away.
No altitude can escape my suction
cups and no liquid can contain me. I am nothing in this scene
but the molecules in between
suffering and pleasure.
To perch upon the rooftop,
to inhale a lesser amount of oxygen and
swallow lightheadedness (that's not even relevant).
Nothing is. Yet,
somehow one moment of indiscretion can fuck
a life or make it
beautiful - that's justice.
Talons could grow from my hands
like that poor lost soul in Wild Arms II
on the screen of my brother
who taught me how to selectively feed
the lighter nature in me.
We both fell from the same tree
and feel the same when eaten.
I want to be consumed
because we might do more good inside
the cells of some other
ape than our own. We're not apes - we're wolves.
I see it now, written in the starry nights of
cityless scapes: clothes are shackles and flesh a guillotine.
Perhaps the future me
incriminated past iterations as war criminals,
transgressing against the self. Every time I blink
he is reincarnated. Every time, I die.
At the foot of a grave lines intersect
and the living and dead lay
perpendicular. I am perhaps at the precipice
of monstrosity and I am not entirely trusting
of gravity.
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