Blank as a granite carapace,
Balding, baby gummed,
Gnawing incessantly at the edges of things
and Dusting their consequence with fog.

Littered bulletin bullet points,
Priorities bulletproof,
Shatter resistant in the holographic intellectual high as it
Rapes mundane certainties.

Symbolism leashed between the curves
and Lineage,
Linear half-circles,
Full turns, full
Throttle, full
Stop.

Screeching like childbirth.
Squealing like brakes.
Shrieking like silence.

----------The thrumming of quiet behind my eyes, between my ears;
----------Pressing against my reality like a wooded night on eyes.
----------I am a husk that quivers like a tuning fork, an embodiment of the ringing hush.

----------Trembling, shuddering, thrashing against the wavelength
----------as the Stillness begins to shout.

Plunging broken and cracked digits,
Shouting, sobbing against
Blackboards, poorly tuned cables,
Scrabbling to wound, to
Incite
Anything.

Wailing scratches on your
Countenance, your
Great Design borne
Hollow,
Shaken like a
Rattle
like dying reeds within
Gusts we bear on our breasts like
Scars,
Medals.

Hovering,
Deprecating,
Decayed synapses and frayed strings that
Thrum half-heartedly with distant songs.

Slit, spread,
Shatter and agonize and
Bleed like a gift, fill our glasses and
Tap our spoons upon their reassurance, their
Illusion; sewn. Single.
Initial and drained to full.