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Monday, 13 February 2017

For Mayakovsky









i will find 
work, 
that dogs us
and all the while never 
getting out from under it, 
there is always a thread
attached to your gemlike dogtooth
as though impossible
to get rid of,
 in or outside 
the min rushes
 to fill each gap
we live temporally,
and so 
in this mobile world
 the shape that arrives
never quite fills the space 
that called it 
but here 
a little shot glass 
greases 
the clapped skin 
it is slippage
 that speaks, 
smeared night 
a blotchy face,

a demented
 mouth-phone