You. You.
Leave the room less.
Shell is my body. Are you?
No.
Magnetsresistingrepel
My god, you left your coffee cup on the counter
g o n e
Your scent (violent)
Hold on, Body
Topography of room: one-shot man
In other chair
The air
Smoke rises from the painting across
On the shelf: fellow vertebrata (merely ink)
Litter on the floor: empty bags
Crooked chair: map of your body 25 miles away
Whirring fan, rousing cats, traffic outside: Fuck you all
At ten o’clock: ultrasound for clots
Clotted am I
Sans
Beginningsendings
Interpretation (nil)
But now: inward Eye must
Hand on my heart: Shhhhhh
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
I write to break the psyche in half. What good are words unless they turn us upside down and shake us?
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