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Umwelt

On a conveyor belt of sleeping days,
I am riding through a cold and gray moving picture
of highways and waiting rooms
places of suffering and work
windows to stare out into deadened grass
false conversations and forced laughter
quiet machines and screaming metal
people mouthing the smallest talk
televisions and telephones that televise
music with deep bass and deeper mind
poke me with your stick of attention
drive me with your car
and fill me with dreams of perfection
and choices of just the right word.
Now at the end of this ride
I pry out these little revelations
from the corner of my blind eye
and I see that I was on a conveyor belt
created by my idle hand…
I SWEAR TO YOU that there is more than this
but the infinite which surrounds me
has been switched off
and they took a picture of a black hole.

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