November 29, 2013 § Leave a comment

art that remembers itself into the marrow of my mind

as I am commanded to forget myself

will not be my saviour. let no man deliver me from

or unto myself. war, war against the passage of time

that defends itself against the study of souls

until everything is lost to it; you, me, Watchman.

not every memory I have begins at Genesis.

october. sixteen. eight pm.

nesting as I sleep out the storm I am

living an ontogenetic dream in

which wings are wings, nothing more, or less

and on parting, every memory I own begins

at Exodus


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