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The Pitch Piles Up in Part

The pitch piles up in part
on part of the heart’s abyss.
Unbalanced from exaggeration
I career towards crisis.

Blood gangs up in the groin.
Nerves know at the temples.
In one flush fury thrusts
and the wall of reason tumbles.

The eye rolls out of orbit.
The body bucks like a beast’s.
Driven daft by his dream
the whole man bursts.

Spannered, the works
fly all over the shop:
wardrobes, women, babies,
bedroom, kitchens—scrap.

In bits
things mean more
terribly themselves—
undone for.

I pick, prefer,
accept, adopt
just like a feather sorter
in his feather loft.

The blindness over,
bleakness stretches out
empty as an ocean
round one small boat.

But something’s always had it,
burnt out, destroyed;
for whatever new comes from it
something old died.

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