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Bamboo shot through the dirt as we’d pictured

In its little pot, a puddling peach, it was something of a picture

The fruit was coming fast down its stem

Your dry hand was exploring the picture

I rammed the clean word into the door of your room

The stamina of this solution therefore was pictured

Offered, it held fast, shook none

A hard headed push into the picture

Wow, a lot of emotions right now

Give me instructions for how-to this picture

My hands around a spigot

Twisting into some interior picture

We danced unlashed around a sun spot

I humped the friend who took the picture

My sister, I am a dog being a dog

She knows that it doesn’t fit the pictures

I say believe her,

Believe the picture


Everything can be blurred, except for cruelty.

Our two main characters are Personality and Innocence.

Personality says: God is impossible! He tears her tears

from her face, throwing water at our feet. Is it the feeling

of similarity that disrupts into storms and floods?

Reflection is a costume house.

The folk perspective still lives the scene: death is stored in the movies.

Innocence is stirred up by Personality. You ate and beat the pig, my friend.

Their youngest child has run out of “value.” I’m “half-awake”

but I’m aware you want something. Personality: Bringing Earth to the table.

Time fringes. Time cuts the Earth in half.

Just look at this object, just look at this object together.

Wanting to be an object. To be time fringed downwards

as if by many legs, in a pocket, travelling anywhere.

I can only imagine a future when we are floating

One beast says to the other.


What is it to be divided?

A self in two parts, counting its portions.

My mother cupped by the three cushion couch

Recalls a conch, counts her options.

The digital plasters a threat

Across our split ends, counts its legacy.

What is it to be divided? For the self to be counted as a whole.

ZOE DARSEE (b. 1991) is a poet, 77 days old as of writing this, one-half of TABLOID press. She lives and teaches in Berlin.

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