the logistics of a knife fight
how the soul leaves the body
never bring a sword to a knife fight— they’ll all think we’re the king and treat us accordingly, checkmate we’re killed last— like the man (or a mouse) of a crazy spouse.
the stab wound flows
our blood, our guts, and all forms of effluence—
to pursue the sewer water goo and start the transcendental ride through space through—
our blood is the first part to return to the soil like the prodigal son, a parody of life— the way it feels to not feel the pain of humanity in a world of vibrant lack of self is as dreadfully exhilarating as it sounds,
return to our corpse, the king of the fight our eyes are black, our skin is white we are dead, on the ground
and so i am alive! and i just learned th-the vibrance of sound? i can see the warmth of music? i am not sure of self anymore—am i scattered?
you are sliding into a broken down existence— flesh, or what’s left of you, is a result of electrons finding their partners. i am sapient death! we are no longer on track to see the world together. you are now sliding. you are slipping, slipping, sliding, down to an infinitely imperceptible universe wherein “we” no longer linger
We were laying there; dying on the ground at the knife fight– brother,
who has killed you—who has killed you and brought me to life?!