LYRICS
My fingers. Scraped by juts. Cuts into scars.
Dusts and muds creeping into tired veins.
And my toes. Swelling and cracking. Pussing.
There are no ointments. Salves cannot be made.
Rags have not been seen for generations
(Long ago poached, and stowed away or burnt).
Fragile threads left over are sparsely found.
The grains of their fibres erode to air.
As the winds whip the flame, rattling glass,
Dispersing them further (hidden away).
Congealing fragments, compressed into strings,
Twining with each other, formed into ropes,
Braided into networks, structuralized,
Through intricate additive processes,
Infinitesimally woven swatches,
Which may, through combinatory tactics,
Be adjusted in breadth, altered to suit,
Pulled into shapes, crammed into crevices,
Used to conceal, for a moment or two,
Illegalized actions, objects, or flesh.
Since we are no longer in the age where
Wealth accumulates itself as symbol
And we are now living in the age of
Wealth articulated as metaphor,
All forms of the symbolic have been culled
(To objectify the metaphoric)
And all forms of the expressive suppressed
(Mitigating variations in forms)
(As these variations make legible
Structures functioning through opacity).
And that being so: gleaning from these shards;
And that being so: weaving from these lints;
And that being so: fearing detection;
And that being so: risking erasure;
And that being so: (though this day will come)
Stalking the soil and the stagnant water,
With hairs draped like flames, eyes piercing the dark,
Acclimatized to the microscopic
(Though lenses, too, may never be produced)
I search for the variants on these grounds.
