To fill a singly human stretch of frameworks,
Each ending openly upon incompleteness,
Into one frame of feeling… irked alive,
Shuddered inspiration.
To not be social functions of solitude:
Our graphs all tire vertically,
Limper as they rise,
But they rise. Together,
We visit catching instants of butchery…
The detachment following butchery:
The static depth of things not being different.
Later, turn off the lights. Lie in the dark,
Marinade in that frustration-accumulation
(Desperately waiting to “sleep on it”)…
Jerk off.
Consonant Berry 