Soliloquy in a Split Screen Freeze Frame
Let me say this plainly. We are prettier alone.
These people who throw their walking in our faces.
These people with their walking.
There is one who stomps a puddle while on the phone
with his mother, a mother who somewhere
pours gin into a glass with how many fingerprints,
squalid smudges, petri dish. Terrible black in the snow,
hooves glutting on a horsepath, beastly footfalls.
The world is too much with us all; we are prettier
alone and alone, we clutter dirty in bad weather.
On house made of timber, on house made of houses'
shadow, on hidden pipework bowing strings between walls
every hour on the hour meantime hush. Cobwebs:
holly for my worship, stewing chicken in a rusted pot
with years old tabasco and by night my solitude
metabolized by the body unto blankness.
Ravishing obsolescence, let me languish away these ages.
You are in Denmark and then you are one
block away and you are both times wholly obnoxious.
My singular rug with its singular prints denotes
trespasslessness because why upset the quiet but then
somewhere an unclean glass pours out its gin and is never
heard from again by anyone. We are merely beautiful alone.
In the sludgepath a ghost apes the move of a body, inhabits
a body that has thinned to nothing but still the walking,
still the filthy feet with their living muscle memory,
still the anthem thrumming in the narrows of ourselves.
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