retitled

(how else should i say this?) her brokenness has mastered mine —overwhelmed by feelings of mutual twathood— inviting us to staring contests at insomnia o’clock.   his dictaphone has a single message: “i can’t fix you; I’ll carry you”.   (does anyone else know this is happening? probably not.)

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Scene II (for binyavanga)

in outerspace this morning sat a bird on my  headboard twittering in a language they call love.                   (binya, if love were an act, what would it look like?)   suppose love were a verb that does, and outerspace a place   would you get into this steel pipe […]

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(after witchboy)

we sit in bars waiting for time. speaking in a foreign language they call normative because it is no longer safe to be here.   (a lover waits for death, across the other side)   Also:   there’s nothing left once the imaginary apocalypse is no longer a reflection of time and taty has since […]

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the balcony.

she stands on the balcony of death overlooking his neighbours’ lavender jacaranda carpet. he will keep gnashing his teeth in far away places in Oblivion. but—hawks can’t snatch food where there is none and her mother no longer thinks he matters. so: we have taught ourselves to ward off death in ink (how futile an […]

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re-member silence.

i buy an oversized jungle green jacket that i will never wear. i see you breaking. i return to my cousin a lot, lately. in two days he will call to ask me to report to the nearest police station.

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Nothingness ends, too.

In some instances—perhaps in the future, she might think of you—like this: the man friend into whose body she has been. He sleeps with his hand on his crotch, dreaming away all the nightmares from her future: Women with bodies that float like dead fish thrown at eagles in Naivasha.

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