by Ross Brighton
This salty this is empire of salt.
Is not animal.
No, the absent operator
This is lies all lies.
Fractal this fictive city, its dishonest glassblown tower.
What you would say if I said I want to fuck you.
Movement of things relative to is other movement.
Inside of things there are insides.
I need to turn off my mind, even this screech or errata.
I need to insert my self here represented by the first personal pronoun in order to be rid of it.
Relationships between people, objects, signs and abstract concepts.
Red smear on the face is to do with fishes.
Fracture or rupture.
Cut out in order, redder.
Where and why they were wearing it.
Towering over, this arch arches.
Don’t fuck up now.
Probing the inside of this cataclysm must start somewhere.
Anytime is no time at all, and no place.
The arm gone and then the leg.
And then and then: et cet era
councillor whittle in
vitality to halo side
( hollow )
filter tree light
forest pastor foresting bushels
odd end ulterior (altar)
far flung wire
islands under (whole)
fold sequestered out
face sunning whistle
globe set far
night whorl ripple
thaumaturge priest henge
action movement rocking
rocks side side as can
slow henging picture
vintage instrument thus hinged
growing urge acted upon stoning
well suited for