Bloodnotes


Decomposition

When the soul, when the body is no longer, when the soul the only soul the soul only, when the body gives up its soul, when the body has only just gone away, when violence lets go the soul, when the soul the only soul the soul only rises like leavened bread the soul lets go the body to make its way into the black the heavens, the soul the only soul the soul only is sharp is fading is round about the edges, the body with time enough for no one thing nothing not any thing but decomposition with time enough for no one thing nothing not any thing but sharp fading round about the edges, there is time enough, enough time, for the body is no longer and the soul the only soul the soul only goes into the black, the heavens.

Fragments

In the time it takes to raise, aim a gun, a body is born to black, flung far from the world it left behind. The gun, the body, the world are born to black, flung far from anything, anything at all. Seconds pass, fragments, and the gun, the body, the world, flung far from anything, anything at all, and the world, the aim, the raise are far flung, a world left behind from everything, everything at all. Seconds pass, fragments, and the everything, the anything, the body are raised, aimed, and the gun, the gun is left behind, a world far flung from the aim, and the raise, but the body is raised, flung far. In the time it takes to body, born to black, flung far from the seconds, fragments, the left behind, the body is everything, fragments, seconds, in time to raise the world.

Bloodnotes

The language of blood is brilliant and brooding, and like a spatter, quiet and wild, bright and black, wordy and unknown, it settles, a heavy reading. The trick is in the death, in the beating, in a drop so small it could be a lie. The language of blood is spatter, and like a lie, quiet and beating, small and wild, it settles, a brilliant reading. The trick is in the small, in the quiet, in a death so heavy it could be a drop. The language of blood is brilliant, and like a death, bright and unknown, black and small, wordy and quiet, it settles, a bright reading. The trick is in the trick, in the black, in the unknown, in a lie so wild it could be a small. This is the language of blood, a tiny drop of death.   

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