[the broken pleasure of marching]

un-shaken, moving un-restricted through the blank season, counting the dead, counting the days, counting heart beats, back to worms, back to dustvback to this un-necessary burden, sometimes in terror, sometimes a reversal crushed beneath another categorical persistence, another dream creature who does not speak.

this is what death is, everything that has ever been seen, everything that has ever been done, will have been done and still nowhere is anywhere for nothing moving towards un-becoming, greased for passage down a pipe, trickling down the throat, against the will preserved, well built lonely insistence on column willing, to be a real body in a real existence, around other bodies gathered up for dead.