Merkwelt
The weather in this room is eel-black,
a gel-like ointment.
It is a cream-like substance
the exact texture of death.
It lives, like a dream, inside the body.
I have tried but I cannot
get it out.
I am showing you the history of life
through a series of unrelated gestures.
You can talk to the dead just like you talk to the living.
There is a blonde field and dark river
that seams along the edge of its forest.
A fracturing, television-like static.
Glitter and beads, animal, mineral.
Memory as a form of matter.
I have an accident every five years
and one year it won’t be accident.
Can we count on you?
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