the strangest, obsoletest feeling it is this, heave of poitrine or hetero male chest
to, suddenly feel an incling to write a poem and all rules are getting fucked up
again while there is already a vague notion of content it has to be the day again just
this endless almost senseless succession of days but then in the (80s) “no future”,
“stop making sense”, mode.
what is this mysterious meaninglessness other then to be fallen in time, rather
“timelessness” even prepositioning the absence of time, the acceptance of chronic,
eeeh chronologic sequesterings but they are hoaxes with which we still our unrests:
we are particles of the universe and in the end or before the begin travel as neutrinos
through the chambers in the deepest transvaal mines 3,2 km.
through the plasmoid imminence of the sun ungraspable hot, through multitudes
of physicalities bumping into viscera, cartilage, eye fluid, the…
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