Millenarian: prose by Catherine V. Moore

This brick forms a wall in the yellow drag of hours. This brick holds all the lurch, the tiny red eye, this brick is the contracted inside-out is hatred’s aneurysm. It is the money. The outraged earth. The way to the chute of black mineral sedulity. Catatonic madness of a sanded-in nostril. It is the great dark house with all the thin teacups. It is the thrown up star of the paper-white girl who sat among all the tulips. All the special purposes we inhabit and all the amplitudes we hold in our hands and throw like lots into this bowl of being are not pulsing but the brick is. It is the cry, attic, attic, attic,


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