voice mail

more notes on psychosis

It is night, and I am falling like an orphan from nowhere above the city. All I have is the wind in my ears, and the compression of space. The light flattens into concrete and blacktop, and spreads beneath me like a virus. Later, I may be accused of having stumbled over a footstool, demonstrating the human enthusiasm for inelegance. But for now, all there is is falling, and the bruntful possibility of impact. When ghosts know my name, I will know that I have arrived.

The telephone sounds foreign when it rings. It is alien technology. A bakelite conspiracy. Something discussed on all-night American talk radio. The property once of a Commissar, the graffiti of his Soviet fingerprints underlying my own. I resist the temptation to answer. There are demons on telephone lines. They possess you through the earpiece. They walk your inner halls, and mock your choice of art. They make you wear the wrong tie, and speak disparagingly over your reluctant tongue and teeth.

how dreadful is your absence
a message might be
against its will to
no one there

you are deceived by a
map in your shoe your
neighbours wear suicide bombs

hear a song of
static tumult
somewhere in the
night as I fall

the stars are
waxy wicked &
smoke in their missing wind


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