L I F E B E G I N S —
an assemblage,
a skeleton key, bent
on unlocking 3/4 time—
the other hand steady, gripping the rhythm
that shatters ice.
We juggle
Life and Death,
right hand countering left—
God, a brooding presence,
alpha slipping into omega.
It’s not some golden sprawl
of mandatory bliss,
no prime-time TV contest,
no elite gatherings,
but something more—the right hand’s illusion.
The left hand, harsher:
Coke eats rust,
cigarettes choke,
three lagers too many and you’re adrift,
a joint frying synapses
like popcorn kernels.
Short thoughts collide,
words jumble—nonsense on repeat.
We tally the wreckage,
a list long enough
to overflow the table,
and when it rains,
the drenched drown in its
downpour.
The whole body is clenched. Inside and outside the palm of his hand, Leonardo Oizruc's physique exerts an impact. This means that he makes a fist-like gesture after sending a surge through his core. He stands firm on his feet, shielding this wave from harm. Cushioning is so prevalent. A thrust is present. Naturally, there is also nothingness.
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