in the first book of myths
on the day of compromise
before the grave diggers parade
ridicule came from the airways
came pumping blood
replaced with something
from an armored copy
on a golden vertigo
I felt like a compromise again
those placenta headlines
those winds of the flatlands
that turn darkness to . . .
without ends
the cold froze my hands to murder
cut off pain to suddenly burning
it was my own impotence
on a fake landscape
tickets sold my body
torn to shreds
I had to answer
to scattered phenomena
talk to isolation
and question flogged
and gagged compromise
the day begun again
and in first book of myths
on the edge
a grave diggers spade
caught in possession of thoughts . . .
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