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Thursday, April 5, 2018


ten-thousand dyed-scarlet anesthetized moths--affixed-- 
wake, sewn into flutter of whitegown 
with their redworm
bodies seep-

ing jam.

still able-- 
they lift their dress briefly 
to stumble-fly across the room until 
the champagne-stained linens glow the fragile yellow

of waterlogged urine. the moths die but not all 
at once and the gown keeps startling-to
for end-of-life hours of 
threadpalsy &


old speakers
tweet&woof a looping west
end girls and this lends an august feeling 
to an affair of late summer absences: no cake, guests— 

flowergirl. not one crying eye. &despite the dying 
throes of the dress, no bride is entered 
into evidence. implied: a seam-
stress under 


perhaps heart-
less with excellent technique. not 
a single bloody insect breaks spell with ill-
timed pointless escape and the artist watches, remotely, her 

conceptual ballroom thrumming with the spirit of analog: no 
catharsis planned. these small murders she unweds
to meaning, nor do they

the artist 

simply hurts
others, moths, and has 
found it not difficult to find--it has never been  
too terrible or difficult to find, to cultivate really--a factoryful 

of women, willing or starving, with needles. fashion is 
narcotic--every gown a jolt of renewal. 
she has vowed never to design 
a metaphor.


takes more
than it takes. it can only 
disregard banality, it can only divorce 
wing from what should not be winged: bridegrub.

see also: genius, musewraith, leech


bloof said...

boom i explode

Radish King said...

Breathless as in I held my breath all the way through oh god. Thank you you. Inspired.