Brittle*

When the spine goes down…whatayagonnado? Whata ya gonna do
I mean it ain’t like, like I’m…naw, it ain’t like that
IT AIN’T LIKE THAT!!! Like I’m complaining about doin’ somethin’ everyday and haten’ it
Ain’t like that

It’s getting’ heavier. Weighin’ my dreams down. My dreaming, my dreaming
Every dream I have is risky, the motions extreme. Krawl, now for my tail, backwards, collecting my curves, forward and… every move is hazardous. Tripping over all the tools I’m forbidden to use, distortions swarm toward my center…gettin’ smaller, smaller, smaller...
In the anatomy of a scar escape is tatooed to my heart

Cell division, zero zero on the wall, there’s a flaw in the works... a way in!
Far far away where I light a candle instead a flippin’a switch, and oh the dawn comes on slow and steady
before the blind army begins the mad rush and grab of pitiful comforts
What qualities make a sound, one terrifies close to the bone? In quiver, not for the arrow, but for the prey...stalked at the marrow—the tree does not block the wind, nor will the weed ever stop. We are small, fire addicted, and it never stops it just won’t stop

I am terrifically positioned to examine the pain. I got my cover down, chissling away at my needs... Walk practice, breath practice, eat shit practice,WORM, WORM, WORM,
Attempting to take my time in the crosswalk, I’m forced into pedestrian weaponry just trin’ to...hurry up
I’ve torn myself to shreds, and no one knows how any of it really works. Make it up, go way back, follow elements not people. I’m still what I ever was... catcher and a spider monkey climin’ my own tree, long tail makin’ the connections. Windcatcher, the grinder of letters, arranger of bones. That’s right, I ain’t on your clock asshole, I just ain’t on your clock..

Sucking on into winter
MASOKIST-AFOKATING with the slow crippling effects of the psychic torture that humankind perpetuates upon itself, from boxes within rooms within buildings within...
Reason stricknined, brittle logic. Strangled, bedangled... and I’m just a stuck carcass; bloated, distorted and waiting for the maggots to relieve the pain.
You can’t just play a little in this game.
Strings fastened to the population, it’s the grand rehearsal of inertia, the director of entropy.
Mutate now or die. Cell division, zero zero on the wall.
MOURN OR BE UNBORN


* text for a film by Carolyn Cooley for a multi media performance directed by Norman Rutherford and Marintha Tewksbury




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