Fingers muse the single word. Wind errs. The situation with epic
in reality is that epic are willing to fail. A denser bob sands the stars open,
an elaborate iron-free glut of redress, skies that overlap one another
with nothing left to crate, writing to know in advance
will be either symbolic or real, neither known till the end
and gravity won’t forget that frosted curators accentuate both 5c’s.
But the situation with epic is here to stay, an interrogation-scatter
musing the post-traumatic growth of tissue. I go to sleep with the prophets
or floating lazily down the lane. All good, she says,
carrying off the unrazed trace, how doth a relapsed sky intend
to take out the clips my mum soon made clear: that there is never
any sex on film. All for good, they say, even earths extinguish and charm
as it ought to make us feel put to life when we talk like
we know what we’re talking about when we talk about
extinction. As poorly clocked bubble-wrap crows, Pharonic kids
flicker across borders, unicorn drones dig in, what do we
talk about when we talk about extinction. Life
attendant on the light-stitched reefs, celestial cuddle
in the fridge where dazzling porn of thieves glues to the house of Atreidae
or family Anatidae. When talk is of extinction eyelashes crumble,
noises give in, lax crystals turn in graves, stimulation is harrowing
into a flush where aniseed hearts would kiss the spider even in the straw.
When I talk like that, of extinction, then what do I talk scattering
the ice-heavy magnitudes beneath the crowded kiosks of poor-will.
When I lie like extinction, what does it do, leaving all reticence in place
to come back and say it again, sassy with disabled grammar which hunts
bloodthick grunts. Interrupted shades run circles around writing
in an election which will count for thousands of years. This kiosk
is still after we have gone, daunting the candied trains, the pensive
fabrics cradling the melancholia deep within the subtext of instagram.