There is a basket I slung over a shoulder-bared and in it I stored the bones of words given, collected and stolen. It was here I kept the granite dreams of stones, the silk entrails of wind-chime-fantasies. Last night under a moon bearing teeth I dipped my hand into my basket of sentiment-polished to find my phrases had broken open and spilt out through the spaces where the basket held together.
I tore at the seams woven of tragedy looking for the word that preceded creation. Knuckles bleeding, I reached beneath the skin reminiscent of burnt earth, browned-coffee seeds and midnight-tinted honey to find the truth that formed the crutch on which the soul, gasping, rested. Look at these curled pages, music arrested and remember polished floors from your other life where Narcissus gazed.
The crescendo of life was a whispered demi-semi-quaver that married sunlight trapped behind criss-crossing black wires. Living became a habit leeched on the string of consciousness difficult to remove. Innumerable were the suicides committed on the knotted ends of stringed letters. Here is the garish face of our salvation, the demon that rises up from sleep to keep us rotating on a spit.
See how I carry the weight of transcendence on my hips, I have housed it on my tongue as a foregone conclusion. Soon I will lay that darkness before dawn on my chopping board, slice it open and discover whether that is what swallowed the light. Your writers have betrayed symbols now all their paragraphs build sand dunes in the mouth.
Ugliness is a bottled plague created by the lack of nuance.