The poetry of the damned does not exist

To read such things would indicate a feature of hope

Who's single station is cold with longing

For itself

A cat hangs a spider from its mouth

If that kitty would lick plastic later,

The spider would be tired

And wrapped in polymers

It is not easy to stay awake; Winter

Warbling birds are gone, the whole house

Robs itself again, again

Motor skills surrender

Narrow doors stutter Old English

Speaking in sappy tongues

The woody days of servants

Met with rifles; anterior, posterior

And now for an exercise;

Something with doubles:

As twins-things have always

Fascinated me

Lets have X walking into the kitchen. No, the dining room.

X sits down on ample cushioning. There is a stillness set into the wainscoting.

The room freezes.

A voice ellipses in, wrecking the closed still. "Hello, my one true love." X startles. Looking up, a shit-storm of boiling air rushes X's eyes. Blinking back into the chair. Standing up. Losing consciousness.

"Hello."

Waking up. The air is brimming. X speaks. Large, in the corner, a figure clusters to the pane. "Hello."

"Have you seen my glasses?"

"Where is the closest W.C.?"

"Today is Friday, right?"

"An Orange?"

And so on.

The two are associated now. Ropes of talk become taut. "How did you get in here?" becomes a short cough. "We are the same?" I thought you'd never ask. Bring me a glass. Bring a glass for yourself, too. We'll speak together. X is hurt, but does not know why. Both retreat into themselves. Doubles doubling. Similar to cellular cleavage. Anaphase I. Or is it?

(The alchemy of language is too much, I think.)

Who wrote; It is not the rain, but the watershed?

I did.