express domestic delivery

"My head swims, stupidly, drunk on a Monday morning on loose strings, spotproof and anger, a limp of silence. But for an old Asian lady, cloudily, trying to record the phrase "express domestic delivery", reading napalm on a businessman and how pretty those characters are, though, struck upon a folded page. Then the sky tasted, tarpaulin across the tips of my drifting synapses: how you become your own once-called empty armies, so long before, so you need.

So you need to do a headstand, or a crown of bone. You need an insect bite and to crush the insect between pulpy fingers and suck against acrid, acidsweet guilt. You need to sweat ice cubes, to think of rashes. You need, in scratched glass and soft lines, a message: I am so fucking wrong. All my kindness with shrapnel. All my labours of and, alien of love that, this is.

This is the morning wires, the way, one machination evenly and remote, a day, preternatural of broken timbers, skinned knees, little stones. I am gorged on the lightness."

—Ian William L.