Thursday, March 12, 2009

drunk with purpose,
I discovered a cat
the other day,
dead on the kitchen
floor, it was never
forgone with a singular
of self, it was the property of
another, someone who enjoys
ignorance as if it was a comfort,
so as the cat was picked up
off the floor and buried
in a heap of gravel, somebody
else used the opportunity to
reconnect, likewise death isn’t
the substitute, merely a wishful
ideal, a sacrificial lamb on the
alter of memory, but issac was
castrated because it was a hermaphrodite,
and neither here nor there,
in between it sat, halfway
from eternity and modernity,
heathen hellfire clubs rode
my nights twice, and it has
been a grand totality of 72 hours,
and you still can’t honour the memory
of a living being, maybe we never live
ourselves, but mimic the moment as
if it’s already occurred in thrice.

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