Nomos, look. Piles of human meat in the shadow of constant hunt. Camps across the landscape. Who is there? Strangers, while every other seeming friend is more estranged by the hour.
Killing is clean now. See its mechanical precision. How ignorance becomes power, bestowing freedom from the burden of care to anyone ready to get drunk on controlling the flow.
Truth becomes a willingness to collapse against the heat of the furnace from the Cyclops’ workshop where the official language is money, and it means to excise other tongues, as souvenirs.
Absence of connection now connective tissue. O body, hold me to remember against the age of endless exhibition––the face, how it felt before you saw it as looping mirrors screening its self-portrait funhouse for forgetting all form where the matter at hand is content and the hand need not apply.
What speaks is by number now but my beginning was the word and I mean to live inside that womb, becoming.
As always, mastery of pen and craft, I especially enjoy the loaded oxymorons.
O, body, how I yearn to know you again against the flesh of another, knowing the pulse of one once not such a stranger in rhythm with mine.
Alex, thank you so much for being here. : )