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Patriotic Games

Rain in the cup of Sha. Courtyards are empty, skies simulating their blues etc.

Simile - smile --- simulacrum --- missile:

The paper sucks ink, drags its substance & dazes insignificances in a stormy surface, sure-fire.

Black Island. Signs pulse. Back to the future.

We open envelopes with anxiety: find only blank sheets.

Wave, syllable breaking there; lip's edge.

Think of truth, chimera, while you finger the first leaves of grass.

Exhaustion, suspended phones, off the hooks . . . . . . .

The ego erases itself, sous rature, sutures itself; gazes at the mirror and sees only its back. Thalassa - ad infinitum.


Dry dream, sour rain, joints of abyssinian/discontinuous prose. . . . . . .

An abyss.

Language in zig-zag, cornered by a zugzwang, scuds over a neutral zone.

One zap, and the moon dissolves. A zoo from zen to zoom? Zeitgeist?

Polaroid logic.

Expectations & disappearances.

You focus and suffocate, unnoticing
the snake's venom, the next sentence's moment.

(Translated by the author)