Androgyny

There’s an instant vanity in living, the awareness of the self sets us on a course that has but one motion, a loop that comes back onto ourselves. Claims to indifference are made by those fleeing, further afield than those who dare cheat death with the script of some ancient construct. I can match you pound for pound upon the the flashing eight, that morphs before you. It’s a seven, re-occurring and like us it is decreasing in substance, in value. Before long values are made to the number six. Then what? We have created a hierarchy that encases a divine being that excludes us to be sure that withering numbers will not get the better of our fair heads that lie on white sheets as they always did, sucking digits, concerning hands, hands, hands and petrified liars who were once like us too. They were there; kissing friends, blowing others. My argument is not with the colour black, nor with its refuges, for in that void, that one that is created with six faces and folds, mechanically. Opposing, left, right, life, left behind engulfing a scream like it’s paternal or because that sticky white mess is a confirmation that something once loved us, I am here, I am here and I have ankles that can roll a rock that plays like a dice, leaving us all to feast upon a cocoon, it has, it has a moon. It’ll lay with us soon, in the grey, in the aftermath, in the upwards spin that see’s everyone naked in the hours that follow through. Claw, two forks or a fly trap; whichever the colour green sought first on its voyage to discover, a man who eats like a cat, swims like a mule and whom they can call “fool”.