My Love

And today against everything the dry well at the bottom of the heart
An incomplete deck of playing cards sleeps in the clenched jaws
Of a monk’s severed hand: I mean … . Oh well … . My Love … .
The bruise will stop by later as I walk in the real world but (again)
Into its deserts, its absurdities

 
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Now read this

*from* The CNTRL FALL[a]CY

It was as if he was being externa11y cntrld, led by the vatic leash by which he was being dragged, more or less, like the maimed animal of a cruel god; dragged through some Keatsian Proverb into that psychic aether to happily serve God... Continue →