#7

I to be one with earth machine 

I to be one before fruit to fall 

I to find what I mean with clay 

and to coil my hidden fruit 

when are the numbers to arrive? 

numbers to be code 

code to darken water 

with electrical and with mechanic 

with my life root 

my smooth target root 

I to have to be to be 

consume I to be complete and red

and I to lead myself to edge

to the edge of man unreadable 

and coal and hydraulic

and I to drag the hills of ant 

beneath black the filter sky

I to the sadness of transport 

and I to the weight of rammed earth 

 

  
 

Mánchese surrounds to me so in a cardboard box when I wake up 
  

I can slowly be disturbed to my exit my low equation of the freedom 
  

that filters I or that no wings required I of the organic containers 
  

underneath the world fuming to take alcohol sleeping opiated and 
  

strong box of stigma under the new sky an accumulation of the 
  

moss of cinamomo and blue atmospheric of the old sky 

but now going lifemare dying a memory a new body no body 
  

a change of the blood a loose pen a demonstration of the rock 
  

against the putting of the sun without the ocean a new sense of... 
  

being dyed with the clouds of the reason that do not need 
  

the phosphorus and the lightening rubbed slightly until the 
  

breathing broken last ready I with the cloth of the water of the 
  

dirt in worms of the good mother collapses deeply deeply 
  

finely deeply and good hot loose earth.