All Tomorrows

aching fever, flat on my blanket the night hurls distant railway tracks and sweaty squalls of cabbage corpses from south-east into the black black chamber. in my fever dream, the corpse sucks me south-south-east into the landfill into her dark entrails, into her blackest fluids fever ache. the potent stench of rot in the bedroom but deeper into the night your compact body against my back the room smells of linen, Orion enframed in the window you smile in the glowing dark and touch me where I need it the most

  sick of soul self talk mirrors all is said mirror fuck shatter. these hands shall change fight up down exclude include world be

in a mere 30 years all those that knew us will be dead as well so as we grow older no news is tellworthy any longer for we see the true world now our fates but nothing so nothing is new and what matters is now and what we leave behind perhaps, if we can