[Painting but Katharina Part]

IV.

herald capturing the gulls, wherefore the bloodied rivulets of sand? why the angled knives and butchery on the silent islands of computer desks. I can see the future, and it is me slowly dying. It is always sinking and the chorus fading like the unending orbit of objects in the Kuiper belt of my consciousness, crashing and hurtling an expanse they cannot understand and will not be able to mend. The rot is deep in the oceans, mixed into the tar of the gas vents and clutching forth in the growling bubbles of poison, close as skeletal fishes and their parasites, close as the whale bones of my past can be, we are the mechanical luminous bulbs in the deepest blue & I am so, so lost here, sifting through tongues and finding the self, consumed and buried, stretching for you through these electric wire cables.

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