so you cook them evil rabbits on a pyre

and as the fire burns out

you set out to scout for the rim of your lungs, enclosing the street, you do it to reach over,  the terrace on your shoulder, which cracks and leaks. as thunder breaks through

along this urgent leakage, a small pond has collected, fish break the surface, and so now you claw at them, you hear your stomach rumbling, and you believe it’s a sign of hunger, but deep down you know it’s the cracking thunder, forecasting your absence, when the flood reaches your bladder

this is, this is the street where you live now, this is the street in which you were born, there is, there is no place but this one, because this place is you

close to your chest, those wriggling fish, you clinch them as tight as you can, so oily they are, they want to escape, it’s hopeless to bring them along, and as thou who holds but owns not, need no bag to carry, you drink up their slime, distill it as brine, and brew your coffee with this magic water

as you suck out the flesh of the fish, you now got a cup, and in that you pour the beverage, so while coffee displaces sleep and clouds gather sky, you enter your stockings without porches

you wander about, outside the house, as the night makes you a streetwalker, your breath is the draft of windows, and your voice the screech of a gate, but nobody is around to hear you, because in this street there is only you

the flood is now reaching your door frame, and so you step up the stairs, you sip at the coffee near you, because the night shift has only begun, to refresh you turn on the shower, located amongst your pubic hair, it’s warm and musky in there, but you’re numb with cold and so you don’t care

there is no place but this one, because this place is you, yet this is the street where you live now, this is the street in which you were born, it is here you make a living, but while you shower your wage is decreased, nobody buys an absent flower, soon you will clutch at straws

what is gained is only lost here, who loses is merely you, and the playground has no children, so you tuck it behind your ears, you gel your hands to pull down the traces, of your formerly swept-back hair, you fix it tightly and wink with the eye, then you slide down the half-heated gut hill

with the tip of a hair, you dodge the lake, of atrocious gastric acid, yet your knee now dips in, it turns wrinkled and thin, before it breaks off ultimately, then a house falls apart, in the middle of the street, it vanishes, withers completely, an empty lot like a fallen milk tooth, what is lost is gained, remember ...

this is, this is the street where you live now, this is the street in which you were born, there is, there is no place but this one, because this place is you

you would like to go home, but you are home now, as there is no place but this one, and you’re now touching yourself, without touching you, you see you, without being able to see, because your eyes they popped out

a while ago, hence this all happens in darkness

because this place is you

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