43 raze the foot you fucked up a week before you turned thirty is on the fritz again. it only hurts when you're standing still. wounds you once watched scab over and abscond with all their flayed flesh are slow to heal when your only fuel is effluvium cut with contempt. each new day is a taking away of what was there the day before. you know this. you are a distant phone recording of a phonograph record, with all the signal loss that implies. your weeping warped by surface noise. bat a blue balloon around. see how high it goes. 260816 what's it to you? who go blather from