[a group of pyrophiles, urinating gasoline | voluntary solitary
(Too much glue, not enough paint thinner. It happens.)

I am, out of practice.


I look at the man across the casket, stoic. I admire him; or, I admire his frigidity (his lucidity). To have such strength as to be unmoved. Free among the slaves of melancholia.

I weep, because who would not. (He would not; he does not.)

Or is it shock? So thick the grief he cannot clot. Oblivion by way of dissociation.

Or principle.

I slap his face but nothing.


It is not enough to be (here). And to live is to gamble (desire as petty cash, knowledge the post-coital whore, et cetera, et cetera) and to die is to win. I want to be outside of myself so badly that I will shear the skin off a stranger and staple it to mine, then wriggle and writhe and rip at the sutures, and breathe, shreds of their and my (our) skin surrounding. Then the hypodermal vacuum demands quarantine protocol. (Or else that is reality.) It is the trouble with being those who are not. Going nowhere slow.


Remember this: whoever speaks is dead, or else you would be.

           Right? Right?

Here I call out, "Take five," and coffee, and extras, and rewrites.


Sometimes I stick tiny triangular blades into my skin as deep as they will go, and then they're inside me, and then the skin heals, and then I fall asleep dreaming of the day I will disappear and leave behind a pile of metal shavings and the putrid stench of unrequited horror.]
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