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Thursday, April 13, 2017

4.13.17 - kiki

a blown wish for leon (belated):
or, on what to sew a patch

I am falling-apart
muslin. I have no anima 
no soul, nor would I want 
a pit at the heart of my gut.

I would prefer not to 
contain any part that, uncontaining
it, ends me. 

I sleeved any selfsense into 
overcoat long ago. I saw how skin would 
shift on whims of light, how it held onto scars 
like lovers. Once mine

is threadthin - I will give up 
any thought of ghost. No one ought live 
on, not in bankrupt lace. 

Please dispel all the little myths
of undying you've kept like mistresses. Un-
keep them. Rather, observe de-
cline like a clinician. 

Beauty is any idea pressed thru in-
flected forms in litanies writ over and over upon 
water by carbon. I tell you it hurts, music. 

And this will go on until to copy decays. It will be 
that I was. Mattered briefly and mattering 
not. Everything meant, I mean to 
leave - both wit and whelping. 

No thing, not sin nor soul, is not a skin job.

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