loch,land

[—‘S long as yeh dont get on talkin to corpses,]

—‘S long as yeh dont get on talkin to corpses,
she’ll be right he’d say. Silly old slut, who for
all his foopball nous now’s no more,
yet on goes his voice all the same.

Fist’s gargantuan, pale body sprawls
on winedark sheets. —One gauge
one colony, per. Foolishness of a past age
wafts from febrile vision,

And I lower the squalid paper to admire
the gut this learned man’s, the dream
child of the destitute men who seem
unable, unwilling to sever cord.

To them this is routine. Their models do
not behave. —The coagulation of—
an excess of—the devaluation of—
the failure of—the failure of—

It crushes me. I am tired.

—A state won’t coin money, states sha’n’t
be unequal! —Fist. Quiet. You’re not
yourself. His back straightens. —What rot.
If I’m not me, then who       is?


contact (gpg key)
email: lm @ (the domain)
elsewhere
lmorrissey.info (professional)
lochland.gitlab.io (coding)
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