I walk in circles gyring—elevating ever outward until I’m circumnavigating your boundless denigration.
Deliver me—enervated—from invigoration as you deliver me from hating myself long enough to despise you.
I’ve placed myself at this longitude so that I may be bisected by your latitude of lassitude.
I’ve misplaced the keys to hegemonic misericordia.
Mercy be done because I haven’t any time left.
Deliver me again from prepositional entanglements and toothsome fricatives.
Yes yes leave my words alone.
Plangent. Agent. Of misfortune.
What I’m Listening To:
“There is no middle when the other side
Would rather kill than compromise”
— Wilco / “Hints”