IX, X, XI,XII

 

IX Marcus builds his babies. They are

physically hand grenade. One is his

darling, his humours. One his 

scourge. Marcus made a baby. Its

hand for the women. Marcus slams

on the door. For he had a world

to do. We saw he had failed at

his chance. The thing you ought to do. 

X It made two lists to 

struggle. Go out. The trees

orange glow about the

railing. We are going sad

towards the Bright new 

Days. Must eke the

beforehand of rooms. 

It tastes the good. Spends

money. Wails out of the palm.

XI There’s a way

for biting the 

facial patterning.

Acts on heaps of

stomach. A dark

and greenish moth.

I’ve carved my

knees for biting. 

Bite. Bite again. 

Revise. Immutable  

socket. Winter. 

Distillation. How

old. Hungry. As

you became wrapt

the air dressed 

you. The clouds

kissed your spine. 

Lay there out in

the garden. A pool

of your growing

lifelessness. 

XII The list begins to glint a quiet violent orange. Impossible to see. Each letter is a living evaluation of scattered motive. One day respond. One day, respond. Until then it is forever too late. Nothing will be cleared. Oily. Was oily. Oily and ashamed.