George Orwell was shot in throat.

And 80 years later the bullet is still lodged in the space where the wind passes through as I’m clutching at the air and at my neck and at my hands as though I were Lady Macbeth, awaiting an awakening from sleep and from spring. I’m shoved full of cotton balls, don’t look too closely at the seams in case it seems that I’m not what I seem, do you see what I mean? I’ve been trekking on a dead leg since 1983. Or was it ’84? We’re back to George Orwell. You see I can’t get it out of my head like I’m playing Russian Roulette with a loaded gun, but no matter how many times I pull the trigger it doesn’t end. The gyre doesn’t cease to turn, the falcon cannot hear the falconer, the falcon cannot heal the falconer. I’m just regurgitating someone else’s words. I am the product of one million middle schoolers projecting trashed ideas in a casing of spit. I am the neon god floating above the film of shitty streetlights and cigarette smoke sneaking its way across the opal sky in a funeral procession of venereal secession manifested in red sashes slashing their paths across the people of the church having been bathed in blood, for there will we find love.

Mold me into the shape of the mountain. Move me with your mind. Let me rest in the alcove of your chest where I will sink with every breath like the stone I am. I am. I am.


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