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there certainly is in this world
resembling a drawer full up with dirty laundry a spot for which i’m longing like a sexual slave for erotochine a place that viscerally guides me as if i’m a radio-controlled puppet over the night we are telepathically communicating electrical impulses sends in my tympanum i dream of unknown trees concentric labyrinths whirlwinds of rays shadows of butterflies like a yoyo made of rags to the hand that flings it and uses instead of elastic an umbilical cord like time to space like the mouth of the lizard to its tail attracted we are me by the sky within itself the other by my transparent scentless blood
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