This is a collaboration between Michael Justin Hatfield and me.
I.
These fatal echoes
flowing just under the surface
of our days,
when avowed,
wash out the uneven happiness
of past hours
until knowledge becomes
only the static noise
of a contagious stream,
mortal sewage that
bogs memory until we
make of ourselves
mere shadows on a
drifting continent.
II.
what vacant gords that bobble
limey greekly little isotopes
branching out from a gluttonous radix
sharing leaves and when we burn
we burn together pungent smokes
and each born twig is bifurcated
manifold and more ramose
tentacular and more morose
callow crude and guileless
with signs
of further virescence
III.
blank embers of
adjectival rain oxidized
verse represent our
ink-bloated momentary
translations of a world
whose arteries leak life
into a flood of
unwarranted life
to praise in poetry
sing songs of not fear
not anxiety not a weaker species
because evolution ends here
language is a pinnacle
of dying phonemes
semiotic structures
the babbled plateau of meaning
because death is only acceptable
the ash rain of ancestors living cyclically
in linear times
can only be tolerated
if the prayer of humankind has been answered
IV.
choke the oxygen from your words
let the flood be of gags
for strength does not ignore
but confront
for life
is blanching at cessation
and its disgust
is eternal
because a pause beckons putrescence
not one + worthy of aspiration
save those developed from negatives
so now leave the merry buried
their worlds have died with them
the sweet shells of their smiles
should remain worn in one way
for cliffs, for falling
the clouds are never thick enough
to mask for you
below
V.
don't believe in inverted mountains
shallow imprints of movement
straining toward a vaulted core
don't believe in suspended memories
or the predestined moment
where the last breath of humanity
has been waning
we are all falling through time
away from death and past birth
or the basic assumption that
all life is good or evil
forgetting ourselves
forgetting arrival's knowledge
but growing fond
growing fond of backwards
motion
the flesh that was never flesh
tearing through the air
that breeds our simulated experience
going toward the original reason
the first instance of particularism
fighting in darkness
like cockroaches
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