10: WHO



If you scratch at the right angle, you can hear music in a cut sphere of tree rings

As if the tree acquired nothing in centuries of being still but the sound of a year

Can be heard, like the songs of birds at night,

When it is all too easy to forget that they still exist.

I wonder how many rings I would have by now combined

laughing marks of disaster or serotonin.


I cannot identify with my old visual pseudonym

any more than a young girl’s balloon or a few elderley lady’s rings.

Grandma had sat understanding immigration and concubines

in the place- where everyone’s always tired- next to the plastic printed face of the year

and I too had learned how to exist

befriending blanket clichéd night


or the moment, after waking up,  kneeling to fraud’s first knight

before opening sunrise, trying to inhale serotonin,

that I would learn to exit.

rehearsing vomit echo words with each time the phone rings

or too many swallows, the weight of the mistakes of the year



I cannot be found in one scar confined

and anyway I’d rather be the mistaken than the night

I was told my worth decreases almost by the year

The false truth of false beauty sharply rings

but I am setting in

Once accumulating anxiety like I accumulated exes.


I think I layer only insecurity,  to exist

entailed me to be two grains of sand, to combine

with other people’s false serotonin.

Each year

my identity wrings.

And I became a blind person’s dream, whispering good night


to night

where the rest of me exists

and the sound of birds ring

I will always be combined

with Frankenstein, myself from another year’s



I shed the nucleotides that I have

combined and exist: a year of dedicated isolation, to ring

serotonin to unnamed art – those who practice night.


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