For Our Argument

The last 12 minutes.
Spilt retina.
Into black lion’s mane around my collar.
And I want to slit it’s throat
And push this day into it.
Extracting the beautiful and deconstructing origami folds
Into unsavoury layers of green at the surface.
The world turns to balloon skin.
And my hairs are eel’s teeth.
I can hardly open my eyes in this black,
And I hardly want to,
So I pull my head in
Exhaling my own surface
Eyes rolling and still can’t see out the back of my head
Picking blackberry out of my teeth
Feeding ungrateful pets.
Black Paper Swan swims down
Along the pouring black waterfalls.
And the black rocks
at the bottom,
recall nothing of crushing their own.

Author: On A Bench

Documentary Sound and Location Recordist, Artist

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