I’m in the reign.
I’m in the son.
I’m in the middle
of the middle
of the last one.

50 Minutes

Distance needs no negative.
The bottom’s-up is relative. 
Viewpoint is irrelevant. 

Stacking stacks where, stacked, are stacks
of ticky-tack facts falling under attack.
Black is now white and white is now black.
Ticky-tack fact.

But when the storm finally comes,
you’ll have no where to run,
save to the means of conscience;

Judgement. 

38 Minutes

There is poison in your postcards. 
There are patterns in your pawns. 
They are cooking me with logics.
They are right where they belong. 

I am constantly in motion
like the surface of the ocean.
I am static out of habit,
like the super cinematic.
You are mine, but I’m not yours.
I have done this all before. 
Once or twice or maybe more. 
Maybe thrice should lead to four.

Mk. III

I used to have five.
But you couldn’t see
that your lack of foresight
has left me with three.
A blip in the system,
the signs take control.
A new simulation;
with no original.

19.3|2.18(z)