#2,674 Cries of things to die
I am Willem Defoe & you
Charlotte Gainsbourg in
[hip-high] ferns –
above us
that dead trunk & cabin –
timber-rough –
pack-lifts
dropped to that floor & a
night of acorn-showering
on us –
spite spikes inside
itchy bedding –
it’ll run in
recall & therapies –
I deal
with my endless analysis
of arts –
of our difficulties
[our thought-forging fear]
& you will fake a recovery
as a fox says chaos reigns