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unentitled [poem]


this one was written around the same time as the previously posted "fountain of you", which i mention because despite the content being fairly different, i find that there's a similarity of cadence between the two. i also think that both gain something from being spoken, although if you're reading this from a mobile device in public, changes are the only thing you'll gain from speaking them out loud is weird stares. but you're welcome to try. i'd consider it an honour. and no, it's not supposed to be called "untitled". sometimes, you just need to make up a word.

Unentitled
Written in skin
Story of what
Of what happened
What didn’t happen here?
The outline of a body
Of work
A story that exists in the frame
Choked into asphalt
Unspoken of in these ears
Ever. More.
Time becomes
Becomes us all
We become weak
In its grip
Become lost under our own bodies
Become thick with history
Our old friends polished up new again
Those stale old chestnuts
Coughed up like hairballs
As if digesting them would make them
More. Palatable.
These two are dried to dust
Too familiar devils tickling at our necks.
You did not say what I’d thought
You said only
And I’d thought there was a whisper
I felt there was another act
But those performances are made the same
Am I the only one that wonders
Why the costumes are so ill-fitting?
Or why the dialogue repeats at odd
Unmusical intervals?
The finery collapses, reeking of sweat
And mould
Of bodies put to use
And lost to ashy history.
And we all say goodnight in a cloud
Hands over our faces
It gets inside us anyway 
And it should make us choke.

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