Spontaneous Writings of Matt Brand 718

healthy


promising into space;
made nothing, unpeeling naked
simplification combustion. The
body does all the dancing it needs to,
no use in knowing
why one's hair will look like like sun escaping the horizon
in a striptease against the ocean;
or another, wild-fire mouth covered with youth and a future
of misplacing
store-bought cake mixes.

Round the edges, cover the corners;
cut the bulshit and sublimate illusions into infinity;
let's escape into the reality of otherness.