The past is real
people don't endure
physical objects
the bruises' bleeding pulp
stain on slab of concrete
which has garnered a hit
this is wounded objects
something terrible something
other than is violently happening
inside you coming to know
that time is truth
flesh does not abstain
from doing-away-with. The spirit
has turtle shells like or as cicada
emergent I who ain't shit
turn to dust
feeding mite-lust.
