Break no Bread

Thursday, October 4th, 2012

 

Was there ever such a perfect time?
I am in waste and I hang for it
Don’t let me drift from my task
I could veer and spill onto my side

This is my sickness

Sometimes I talk to my own excrement
Or size myself up in a mirror
I lie down on a surface intended for walking upon
And I gorge myself on molecules

This is my sickness

Don’t come close to me; you don’t need
To see the pieces that begrime me
In time I will transfer them onto you
But for now be patient; stay there

This is my sickness

I will line up and coat with dust
Every half-thought and every action
Until all content has been obscured
My finger died in the woods; its use went

This is my sickness

Macabra macabra la pata de cabra

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