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.
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Author: On A Bench

Documentary Sound and Location Recordist, Artist

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