To be on…

Night

… myself as the table circulates in a pile of nothingness. I was given to nothingness. Piles of nothingness. Measured by the unity of abysmal. Not the infinite. There is a difference. Like ripe mangoes and green. Turgid leaves and dried cones. Powdered into nothingness is the essence that serves a nucleus. With its electron and nuetron can I break the bond?

I stare at it — this victor of wars and my soul will soon be measured by the unit of abysmal as I become the product sans-sperm- sans-egg and leap into the nuclear fusion of atomic dsintegration.

I decide nay — why is the war over?

I tilt the table and the porridge falls…

…soon become cluttered blobs of shielded armour

nothingness is polluted…like bacteria colonies it has been infected by growth

and soon burns away

I have my spoon still my mouth

and the night pours out

with its seed-stars

planting along a mass of dawn in the shape of the morning sun…

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