Thursday, February 25, 2016


Up the stairs 
to the top of the building
thoughts don't go this high
and where they stay
hang out and scheme against
going back down
returning to the exit
leaving the entrance back
where it rejects belonging
cliffhangers are for those
who gulp their breath
into bar-stools knocked over
into next chapters
next diversions from guessing
the next cuts into the bark
into the chalk coughing
with teeth spat into wine
nor shall you afix the lines
those little lines 
different thicknesses
like peering at them 
through a round glass
rounded into a parking lot
lost on the way to rows
rows of students
bored to missions
templates put together
for them rearranged
into pieces of cereal
flakes I believe
I believe flakes
into dandruff falling
snowing onto the hills
of nothing much

What the slope represents is the change collecting in your end-table the number of cars that fit into that plastic box where in the dark corner are two voices arguing over the price of their decision they are trying to make separately individually another one obtained a grade another on top of the other one if it can even fit on top or more so underneath less assholes what the fuck does the slope indicate anyway the number of cars that fit into that plastic box say it again and disturb the villa emptied hollowed out and nothing green remains nothing brown just off-white a peeling of spackle didn't get very far just far enough to wheeze into another debate between cells between poles of life and you know that feeling that feeling of suicide when your life feels like a cold burger or more like you are sitting in your own worn out pants full of your own shit and you don't even look up why bother noticing again that same noticing of the box you are in that is inside out.

- Max Stoltenberg

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