033.2: Dot Devota:: DEFENESTRATIONS: The Division of Labor (II) 033

"One who smoked, the other who threaded the past into a tear-shaped hook and sutured the fabric’s widening entrance. An unbelievable story mask, the eyes poking holes, mouth kissing back to before it was kissed."
T h e  G e c k o  R e f u s e s  T o
T u r n  T h i s  S h a d e  o f  R e t r o g r a d e, fans her grievances blocking the cold sun’s seriality, you should know. I should tell you, I will, I can. I’ve seen how. Fast-forwarded the cutter ants refuse to stop and explain. The Empire trusts. Gathering one another’s grievances and attaching its thistle to our backs. Where we return, hold out for confusion’s temple, a metallic mutiny I saw briefly. In the sky. Was a clasp for—clasping of—equally invisible bookends.




( C o n t . ) Identical twins. Corollary ages unrecognizable. One who smoked, the other who threaded the past into a tear-shaped hook and sutured the fabric’s widening entrance. An unbelievable story mask, the eyes poking holes, mouth kissing back to before it was kissed. Eckelard, Barnhart, Clements. Last names only ever sound like last names, language remodeling. As if. Thrust from embryonic scrolls. To be called upon differently in orbiting sorcery, but let down by the one before, and next, in line. So the name doesn’t sound. Any different underwater, just a feeling. One decides to float. Before fins retreat into breath.




( C o n t . ) If the chair gets up before I do, I will know. The ground takes no prisoners. Not even war’s prisoners who find their last gasp in longevity’s foreign notebooks. Miniature comet tails keeping track. To mark all obsidian for what count? It’s a strange embrace to occur for.




( C o n t . ) I think I’m sick, but can the sickness mean through the next phase? I think I’m a steroid, a pattern in civil war, you wear the pattern valiantly. Though it’s softening since you must exist beside a window light has not visited. The cellar it resounds in. A delicate textile woven in an open web, blood diamonds warped in white. Crepe georgette, hopsack, bird’s eye, marled, piqued, rib-stopped,




( C o n t . ) viscosed, toiled, seer-sucked, shot-effected. Sleep steam irons my bare lexicon and I am inconsolable during your temporary, dark recline.




( C o n t . ) It’s not as if the distance will coil, when struck by a technologically-advanced mallet if the nail is from a railroad’s ghost comfort, through young mountains, your absent cadence writhes and bellies. Lateral locomotion, in directions to move forward. Distance, all directions sooty north.