say it is lost


but going on is a fantasy. with one reel, one crucifix, one by one beside, revert to previous settings. squares and one, a tonne of old, piles of exfoliation. in seven years good time, flinch.

the monstrosity of tomorrow, the charity of now. next fall, i decide to congratulate you on the new baby. wasn’t it born, was it postconceived like letters bereft of plain words. niceties. angry scrawls rushing through the lack of line. 

i think of moving, a clear synaptic reversion of  my folds. keep straight. little comfort in getting in, moving out, letting letting letting it fall then hold. wax ears, dry eyes and hands true and significantly weakening. such is the trouble of rotting, roots grow anywhere. in a rut, hair and throat fixated on the singular sound of deception. we are good manure, this is a tangible purpose beyond moving.

do not engage if teeth are out. the wolves come out with the shivers. grow old like a faucet turned out.

howl. for what it is not.



The painting used as prompt is the intellectual property of Upasana Chakraborty.




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