foghorn - non-place; erasure

lost yourself a mile back,

mumbling blue at the lectern,

wondering who's still yet infected,

carrion hues desperately unread,

resign your health to retain:

your ruse, your rouge

mannequin lye bluff

holding you hostage for a muse

I'm no Icarus

I'm your Dionysus

I'm your June Miller

I'm your hairshirt carcass

forget your starving,

look to the skies, ain't nothing coming,

but you're hearing hissing in the wind,

you're reading tarot palms to make amends;

and I want to forget, all of this ressentiment,

but the sovereigns lay dead in the street,

hear they're bloated from eating concrete

And I'm your condition. I'm the cold hammer.

I'm the mountain curve - forcing life into your dead words.

And I'll build a dwelling. I won't ask for confession.

I'll be this self-alienation - the self-same houses we all die in.