Sounds seeping into my body

through the slit beneath my name,

bear witness to an unconscious movement

out there;

a blind, collective slackening

in the motorway's murmur,

in the cosmic background hum

that possesses nothing but empty force;

the heavy must of everything's existence,

where being itself is a burden

Shadows moving behind shuttered windows

flicker skies & light phenomena

in crackling landscape paintings,

with no recollections but sagging instances

of amnesia,

inaccessibly warehoused, stacked beyond reach

in totality's coherent menagerie

of gravity-flown external worlds

with human animals flourishing in sandboxes

and domestic violence

at a magician's flick,

or the careless initiative

of any cardboard decision-maker

in the ceaseless stream of bald events

that alter nothing,

but sketch indecipherables

against creation's velvet heave

in something never initiated that turns in the night,

thickens, thins, collects,

and dissolves this observation

in the inward numbness of the final phase,

scratching & itching

in a stillness that cranks galaxies

around million-years axes,

letting seconds claw

like stinging powder

inside the shirt

and light-hearted violence topple

in the smell of asphalt

over the footprints of prehistoric time,

impressed in the clay