VI. Murder in the Stadium
Crumpled, the pages remind one of levers.
To every reason -- turn, turn, turn.
A kind of logic, this stitch of interferences.
From this bench the shot light murders glances.
To use words, not as repercussions, but as cushions below zero.
Perhaps absolute knowledge will soften the blow of falling below it.
Red, crushed velvet interiors of coffins in which coffee is about to be served.
The scheme of expression in terms of espresso.
Millipedes limping emphatically.
Each new batch appears to stick to the surface.
Since the mental is a praxis, how come the sentences to moan unoiled?
Cork is pending.
Your nape has some give.
Sleep leaves your eyes.
Sanded down, man is whittled to a bone in spite of spirit.
Consciousness of a lone title. Into a smaller scan.
Phoneme, or becoming-logic. Beast is all.
Ice has hopes, but highly suspect ones.
Sleep is more purple than chiaroscuro.
It is the dream's craftiness to seem beyond the control of its contrary.
But that is too sheepish. The platitudes deepen by losing altitude.
In quirks the absent.
Deep angelus mapping.
Audits niches.
Willowed zinc cross.
What will the water think?
A word -- less system.
Enamelled in painterly thinner.
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