After Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons
A slumber clothed by inconvenience, as a window eats and footfalls swallow caverns in spaces of labour and good breathing. To be many legged, many eyes much searching for sunlight, such eating of filthy brain content that dribbles out of and above, in the lungs and the head and the exhale. Oh to have a lean built into company, to accompany desk light and netting in a catch cache caught. To be sweated and bleeding light and bleeding light heated green. There is no red in it and is it red and is it blinking it is soil bound and eating.