MY TWO LEFT LEGS ARE YOUR ARMS
beneath us we are quiet
radically hushed
pouring melted plastic in all orifices,
lips so loose you forget how to speak
but yet you have no reason to comment
moments are disfigured, like perpetual rebirth
through a distorted glass wall, dripping with black
fur, beauteous black fur
when our fingers clash it creates vibrations and
i don’t even understand how to use language
anymore, i submit—nothing to say
secluded because they lie to us
synthetically displaced
this part is your part and our parts are no parts
inside this part disperses all parts
part 1
part 2
part 3
part nil
even the sky is fragmenting below me
and we enter
Heath Ison is inside The GENESIS of USELESSNESS.
