fv. by B.D. Reid

an immense missing eye, tufted like globules in zero-g
throughout the alleyway outside my apartment;
i think it has wings, but it may be rude to ask — a thing parsed
into oblivion, wretched flowering tongue, folding

there are a lot of reminders of dark
things that don’t mind if you ask about
their special features disc. they glitch and they glitch,
and they gyrate through waveforms of
16-bits to the trough of an infinite hollowness. someone
could think to walk through them, to come out the
other side, to think there is a reason

for the things that happen in the dark universe above (covered,
head-to-toe at the very least, in a beige
drumming hum): someone could
go on into the going, to fuse into “out” or martyr
themselves for all our “in”s. compasses screaming
into the streets, their hair on fire; slapping their small dogs
and their foaming paychecks across the cheeks,
a wave of hysterical solar flares could burst
into a singular moment
of dystopian bollywood metaphors — and,
after slowly crossing
a river of some significance to someone other than myself, there
i might see something fixed to a pinnacle of feeling.

someone will cry and say something,
and i will grow uncomfortable at my discomfort of the aesthetics.