I was not so much the quiet kind
                                                                                       as the kind quieted
O black thanklessness
                                                              sweeten your openings
all life aspires towards the sureness of erasure
              a paroxysm of carnage
                                                                                                  one dissonant spew
                                                                                                                          of imagery
people rise on a word
                                                              & fall on a syllable
                                                                                       only trust in the fragments
“I shall consider the actions & passions of men as if they were
                          matters of lines,
                                                                         surfaces,
                                      & volumes”
                                                                                                 so said Spinoza
you are eternity in a drop of horror
                                                              an invisible
                                                                          slow-motion tragedy
when asked whether its chronic or acute
                                      answer w/ residential
                                                                                                             the silence
                                                                                                                clots

*          *          *

the digital leather
                                       sludgebog
                          is filled w/ a buzz that renders objects
                                                                                                                            as objects
                           & not experiences
my clique of meddling organs
                                                                            are dissolving
                                                                                                               w/in
                                                                                                   & amongst each other
but I will spread myself like wings
                                      I am a
                                                                                   billion
                                                                                      tiny
                                                                                                             feathers
whatever you may hear
                                                                                      there is no greater sound
                                                  than birdsong
                                                                                                   or the wind
my flesh mutates over centuries int
                                                              sigilized
                                                                                                                           swampvenom


Patrick Dunham is a Texas native living in the Pacific Northwest. He self-published a chapbook of 16 poems titled Sharp Relics earlier this year, and he is currently working on a full-length manuscript.
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