OH, sides, oh sides of
him, he is his own tomb, covered with
lilies and miracles. Saint and Angels! I saw him
I saw Alexander, in his tomb, covered
in honey and beeswax, playing small
guitars, covered in glitter and bars, but
his tomb is empty even when he
is in it. He is in the tomb. He is entering
and exiting the tomb simultaneously.
He sat on the tomb once. With the Saints beside
him. And your Anthony
sorry to say, is a mirage.
A saint that has no total. A saint
plus or minus another saint is still
one saint covered in riverwater
and gold dust. A child would drown
in this river, but a saint would
be the river. Be Alexander
resting on a snake bite. He knows his own
attractiveness. Even as a dead man.
I am afraid to speak to him. I hid in the
tomb but the tomb is a dead child
and I have never been comfortable
around children. The hanged man asks
three questions but we are too
tired to answer. So hang. So hang.
I may explain something about
Victory, but I must sleep first.
The body is resilient but only after
proper care and rest. So, goodnight!
Goodnight! But in the morning I cannot feel
my body. More like:
I am a piece of someone else’s body.