The draft killed the back against the tent with the canvas that came away from the icy mountain the canvas that got away from the brain and left crumbs all over the lap and gut. The draft killed the back against the canvas the brain against the body the draft killed it gradually then swiftly then slower than gradually and fooled the subject into the next draft that killed another part of the subject another part of it. Cold quiet desperate frostbit hands in the pockets finding another rock to let fall and clack on the rocky floor once again upon another time upon the rocky bottom of it all.
The draft killed in the direction of the same frequency of the same tendency towards coming back around the back as in back to the back draft killed against the tent with the canvas beaten by the wind into a dazed heaviness anchored to the rocky floor while everything else around the subject at hand frostbit hands and inside the head came away the more it tried to come away break away up and through it stayed anchored in a lightheaded frozen balloon of a face tied in a knot at the neck where was the ice pick?
That can't be it it can't be that the draft killed it and that's how it is for the arrowhead further unburied by a stumble it came away from its grave to be included for a drift from anchor to anchor through ways and means not its own dragged along by faces tied into knots at the neck. Dazed heaviness returning to coal-filled skin and bones for the next variation of adjustments made at the last moment until replaced by another. That can't be it it can't be that the draft killed it and that's how it is for the arrowhead further unburied by a stumble it came away from its grave to be included for a drift from anchor to anchor catch their drift like a cold stitched together with drafts that envelops you for a lifetime and then some shipped in boxes of envelopes sealed and dripping with the adhesive of procedures and the spit of forked faces tied up in knots at the neck.
Where was that pick that word that was picked from the ice coating the inside of the head? Fell through the cracks in the knotty subjects looking up through the glass of the ice underneath where they were have been left in too long to drift from anchor to anchor from port to port on the sides of the laptops from port to port at the bottoms of their walls from wall to wall coming away from the Earth frozen over to preserve the decay. Left in too long left out too long just scratching the surface clawing at the ceiling underneath controlled for less drift from anchor to anchor from port to port at the bottoms of their walls from wall to wall coming away from the Earth frozen over to preserve the decay.
Under a crocheted blanket where gaps let out sleep and let in daggers of dim life the thread is fraying between patterns that cannot be untangled from the clouded expressions of the cratered eyes that bore into the spaces leading down under crocheted linen laid out over another draft put off until another day that arrives too soon with shaking and nausea as tea mixes in the gut still covered with crumbs another revision put off this dull ache will shove against all language before it mingles with the rayless frozen dust within the cratered sockets from which muted knocks and thuds can be heard choked out of the structure just outside that never reposes.
That can't be it it can't be that to be the horror of being in the story told to the subjects in the dark of the tent of the cell for the subjects in the dark to come away with the draft the draft that killed the backs of the subjects with backs against the draft only place left to sit in the dark left out too long to be enlightened by the cremating flame that spread beneath dead asses killed by the open hands opened to the book opened to the desert opened to the rest of the planet frozen over to preserve the decay.
The canvas remains against the draft and its dark cold the canvas remains bare to shield the bodies within the bodies the subjects of bodies the subjects of stories told in the dark around the cremating flame burning on both sides of the cell wall keeping bodies against the dark of the night's void and the light of day where the cremating flame and another collaborative draft that tears away what springs what steps what marks in the ground remain coming away in the draft exhumed from graves into shiftless indecision between the rifts of padded walls cushioning inexorable revisions with less gaps sewn by machines into the next release of stuffed animals packed with stuffing left out and left in too long coming away with more gaps to be sewn shut into the canvas remaining against the draft and its dark cold.
- Max Stoltenberg