Pseudopsychosis.

isolate the modernities 

carnations touch the wind, mocking them,

like a cigarette in the abandoned sunlight,

the entropy, monstering god-like shores

fragmenting ends of the mind,

traversing the watery rock for the sea,

the mouth left behind from the cave,

teeming with blood; the mountain defines

the reflection in your eyes, where have you been?

existence in the memory entreats a hollow entr’acte

of what is left in the struggle of silence like a dead animal, what is left?

cold habitation, all I saw, with the finality full of dead leaves and old loves,

meant for the flowers, but there’s none;

I see nothing but myself elided in words 

I cannot speak, remained between the mind 

into the ice-blue infinity 

where I don’t recognize myself.

desire alone, 

desire in the breeze,

delicately wavering,

in the permanence of frost,

either flowers or derangement,

over the frosted sea in 1300—

whispered, said to me,

this is the world,

and I will bring you only grief.

isolate yourself,

shrouded twilit lovers

beyond the broken glass;

where have you gone?

dreams and acedia,

the lonely summit,

where the dark planet floats—breath like a specter’s—

wants to forget; another fresh wound

into the tomb of the world.

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