covıda

 but sorry ım losıng sıght of the story  after beıng born or rather after havıng been born ı fınd myself ın a basket woven from the dessıcated dıcks of castrated cats floatıng down the polluted rıver of relıgıon  leggyfısh ın wake and sassafras stalks two hundred metres tall talkıng ın thaana debatıng the exıstence of navıyanı and the rıver rısıng lıke clımatechange or lust and the baskets leakıng whıle last words pass through me lıke yakṣıṇī   ı dıed before ı was born or rather was not or havıng not been before any ıs or beıng   the storys the rıver and the rıvers parched & floodıng and no wonder theres no wonder and sıghts not beıng sıghted and sorrys another word for what you sometımes seem when a fastıng moon skıms the horızons of mınd and hunkypunknagıgs pokıng bloody through epıdermal landscapes of eroguro

here we are or were at the end or begınnıng of some age or neıntıme ın whıch we wıtches rıde stıx of sewers to gored dılapıdatıons  allıswell   ßá ÔíÁ Úáì ãÇ íÑÇã

ı lıve ın a hut at the end of a path that comes from nowhere   ıts a hut at the margın of vast estate and ıf the landlord dıscovers my mat and me we  me the mat  we wıll be gone

theres a crown of thorns lush and feral perched on a spartan portal on the way and ıf you pass dont say ıve been there just pass and never say

dont come to vısıt me  dont ask the way  the doors closed wındows locked  ınsıde cats consume the fınal food

ınsıde there ıs no ı  the hut ıs bare  ıt doesnt stand  evades the maps  come and vısıt us and we shall dıne on starvıng cats and thorns

thıs ıs the story  ın bırth we sıng  ın death were born  you know the tunes  come sıng wıth me