literature

in the ruins of your old house there you feel free

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By matsuzake
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Literature Text

i remember nothing except it ended on a soft

note.

like punching onto cotton. candy. (it made

a sweet, muffled sound. &) stickily. wound

its way to suffocating. (silence.)


one scene cut out

from rolls upon rolls

of old film. just one (it started out)

swift lapse, (pause), at first, graced

with dull scissors.


then we burned down the storage-house.


i lit the match & I remember

(this i remember) the dry wind,

the heat, scorching my cheeks as if

I were about to melt also

(from the inside out) but you said,

(hold on tight.) clammy cold palms pressed

against each other, a scream whittled out of me,

less exhilaration than fear


the wet air from my open mouth spun

around me like a silk thread (torn from a cocoon

and I, the dead pupa) but if I were no longer

human I would prefer swifter movement,

paws and fur.


in my past nine consecutive deaths, seven were carried out

by streamlined vehicles of civilization. in my last

I stared full in the sun, consequentially making

the dried stones of my eyes the moon. now I remember

(nothing) except the winds blowing from four directions,

speaking a language I cannot understand

& I chew down on their airy flesh (out of petty

retribution)


the tides won't bring me home.

in the undertow i watched the wound, so fresh

it broke into ripples against my skin& i thought

(hold on tight.) and time

slips from my fingers, like a thin,

silvery thread

because not even memory is about memory
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© 2020 - 2021 matsuzake
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