Genur.art

There is a hole in the flesh, a group of the rest having its way until used it is discarded and only the wall remains: there is a hole in its flesh, preparing us to be used for its uses, to be crenalated like boards of mind for the broken and broken. And of the use, what said is said, what done is done, down into the celebrant earth awaiting our dust, our moments, our dirty shame of boring mundanity that we call such meagre bodies lives, and yet, in the 2 pm window light, I wish for nothing more than the meagre self that is me