A path of tiny punctures, a sketch of a recently delineated new continent.
if you follow it you learn
how fabric is converted into a system. the way out of abstraction:
the world is a reflection of an already existing folder, instead of vice versa –
you know, trouble with parking spaces, small barriers in the blood,
October, the expected torrent from the sky. clothes soiled by the body.
another abandoned temple, transformed into wine, into crumbly bread
for the night, leaving behind
crumbs that will, once all this is over,
get you home safely, keep your eyes from getting pecked, your sol from another
soul, and pair of ears, from Barbra Streisand who bends like a water
pipe in a Jewish neighborhood and vomits, always vomits rain.
thus a continent, in the manner of a fantasy novel, becomes worn out forever,
all its mammals in your golden album
kiss through the plastic and never, never swallow each other.
the ready-to-wear clothes is hanging, like a shadow, over the emptied body shell.
everything has become tight. the paths no longer lead anywhere, the seams get eaten by birds
and the stuffed ones fall on the city later on, like beaked snow, everything
dies; but the disco kings live for a thousand years, tough, with their head high,
no kind of death could be played: by the bow on that throat.