(Here you are, speaking) here I am with nothing but words, moving my mouth to mouth sounds.
(Here you are moving across sounds) sounds, to you. Sounds to you like jabbering in the back of the head, the skull, the skull head, like charcoal crumbling.
(In the midst of a fist against my temple) here I am crumbling before you trying to say something to you, in words, with words.
(Here you are crumbling away with words, in words) like words trying to push their way out of my mouth, my flesh mouth, in one piece and I can not help but chew them out to all the wrongs sounds, like flayed syllables.
(You can not help but be chewed mouth flesh syllables)here before you and after you, left with somewhat an image of you, of what I meant to say, of dust, of you and blue dust clinging to the walls.
(Of my blue self dusting against the words you have said) sure of how much has been lost, in the saying, in the speaking of this here before you. Of you not budging from this chair, out to, towards these words, torn and lost the minute I move away, to the minute, to time.
(Being lost in minutes of time trapped in words) I can’t speak but before you, and after you, as if you were moving across this stage, into and out of the words before you, after you, from me, from my mouth into the darkness of listening, to this crumbling.
(To this crumbling of you speaking I find myself) as if I was speaking, and the movement across the wood of this stage being this, of you as my words, to the stage. That the stage being trampled on was the movement of our voice and feet upon it, our meaning upon, the speaker in relation to our words and movement. Here I am speaking.
(Here we are speaking as nothing but a dead blue corpse being held) togther by a string of attention, of tensions, being your tension to these words that are leaving me, unraveling me, me unraveling these words as I speak them to you, because I speak.
(Unraveling before me) here I am, speaking, of all things. Of all the things to do, to have between us. To be left. To be left between us, like bones, like a field of blue chalk, crumbling corpses, trampled syllables and flayed stages. Of all the things to have.