and for this I can’t seem to beat the dialectic
your tongue makes a tangle of its own
leaving me watered and left to die in the blank
but you knew that, didn’t you?
you knew better than to stuff me with your qualifiers
I’d only eat them alive or worse
give them left-over milk until they grow a brain
there is a face, but don’t take my word for it—
***
my mirrored-self, a dead Clay, lying wet and unjawed
cataloging wishes only to be more godlike
as if thinking hard enough can plus the moon inward,
knock it off its axle, give it a dry hard sucking sound
while running one’s mind over other people’s flesh—
there is a face, but I can’t tell what else
there are too many apples in this bag
and not a place to store my fruit
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