there should have been a third
my friends and I
to not feel so incomprehensible
we were carrying your dead books
we were washed in the blood of them
but we were wanting one more
for a while we tried Artaud’s “all wright is shit all writers are pigs”
our clubhouse; language death war music fireflies for an opera
we were thinking a lot about the feminine
we were putting our feminine in a briefcase
and waiting for
caution tape
hyperlinks to take us to
the tulip scape the blue blazer scape
infinity’s integument
undoing
pageboy, if you hold on, we could all be the
third, and you, the task
of our young life, strangely exhilarated
