Concentrate on the whistling disappearance, former order of operations in combat– but every day flying through mailboxes, taste the ember of time in breadcrumbs. People talk about drinking wine out of skulls, to absorb and to consolidate evil & evil, balancing machine-like grace against crows. Hunger, a storm-cloud I’m encompassing, not that emptiness accepts any metaphors. In the desert waste of cured-meat zombies, pocket watches scream, dying like fruit– also refusing the consolation of metaphor, until the parasite finds a soft spot. Do not then lose the figure dancer’s rhythm even feeling the breaking of your outer skin. Do not then stop playing the mandolin– desert inside and empty mailbox, outside me. Billowing garment of decay, softly here, we concentrate to memorize weather noise, projecting violence onto one another, hungry for any metaphysics.