Tuesday, 23 May 2000

From "Zwitschermaschine"

By John Wilkinson.

The world it presides over buckles & your forename

becomes a surname for one who stakes your humanity
on a broken voice. The webs shrivel to grains of dirt,
but how their structures haunt! As gibberish they
worry your lover during the night but fully reassemble
when you clock in, & into them you burrow to be
delivered to a committee room as previously appointed.

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