Perception’s fabric in exact strangeness
a deeper curl into question
crash into furniture.
Who am I, competitively speaking?
Dial tone. A pillow. Lying down
airtight wooden planks extending
contract in my grip.
Sweat
enters my head by my nose
a mountain rise of guts.
My Guts! Where my gender sprouts
a discovery on ice, how
eyelids have always been massive
ice ages.
How much do we miss?
Dial tone. A cigarette enters
a frialator somewhere. Competitively speaking
I am not what I really am.
I’m flipping ice burgers. I’m encompassing
hypothesis. I’m circling
the drain and the sink
is disgusting and needs to be
scrubbed with bleach. I’m lying
down now. Still. (The drift through
the same old
cross-sections
of a melting iceberg
is not really an iceberg.)
It’s the drift
through metaphor, the sun
has always threatened to strobe
at twenty-four days a second.
The future post-dubstep drops.
An other speaks
emerging from the dial tone.
poem by MacVogt
Image, production, editing by satorid
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