Soliloquy in a Split Screen Freeze FrameLet me say this plainly. We are prettier alone. These people who throw their walking in our faces. These people with their walking. ![]() There is one who stomps a puddle while on the phone with his mother, a mother who somewhere pours gin into a glass with how many fingerprints, ![]() squalid smudges, petri dish. Terrible black in the snow, hooves glutting on a horsepath, beastly footfalls. The world is too much with us all; we are prettier ![]() alone and alone, we clutter dirty in bad weather. On house made of timber, on house made of houses' shadow, on hidden pipework bowing strings between walls ![]() every hour on the hour meantime hush. Cobwebs: holly for my worship, stewing chicken in a rusted pot with years old tabasco and by night my solitude ![]() metabolized by the body unto blankness. Ravishing obsolescence, let me languish away these ages. You are in Denmark and then you are one ![]() block away and you are both times wholly obnoxious. My singular rug with its singular prints denotes trespasslessness because why upset the quiet but then ![]() somewhere an unclean glass pours out its gin and is never heard from again by anyone. We are merely beautiful alone. In the sludgepath a ghost apes the move of a body, inhabits ![]() a body that has thinned to nothing but still the walking, still the filthy feet with their living muscle memory, still the anthem thrumming in the narrows of ourselves. |
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