“He who stands at the place, goes back.”
-Russian fortune cookie

I have a low murmur that reaches
street lamps and cracks them
with it’s undersnarl
that runs naked for miles
seeking something with a
warning and I hit
the corner as you are
walking up.
the light goes out
and a tire screeches
and a cyclist tumbles
and this city is full of
accident now.

you will
know me by my
fang-toothed smile.
you will see the smirk
open wide in the sun
into an open-mouthed
gutter.
you will call yourself
mine and line your bed
with rosary to
stop me from coming
but I’ve already
been invited.
I will be around and
you will be
in tears by
the end when
you remember the
agreement; 
                   revenge is an interesting game,
                   how undiscerning rage becomes
                   when it turns red
                   the story begins
                   as you remember everything
again.

when you remember everything.


“morphic resonance”

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