cur·tate (kûrtāt) adjective Having been shortened; abbreviated.

><><><unterzone
Now that you are asleep and half attentive I want to use your mind In my experiment I am getting slippery, very slippery Now that I am half asleep Let me take you to unterzone You are falling from the top of a long flight of stairs My mother is standing at the top of a long flight of stairs Fully asleep Dead Now that you are fully asleep Let me take you to unterzone Now that I am in my childhood bedroom Alone take you let me to unterzone The source of intention Welcome to unterzone – under – zone. Don’t lose me to unterzone, the self-refrigeration. This is unterzone. Not the underworld - too glamorous. unterzone, superficial, stamped with futility, the glue love cannot stick. Two glues there are: love, and everything else. Everything else upscaled isn’t much use because it’s too big to matter. It seems to be important. Am I important? Ask. Is he important? He says, is important. unterzone is an underpass: long, low grey walls and dirt. I am unterzone, my own unterzone. What was once important is no longer. I am no longer important. Unwelcome, a footnote to myself. Selling me myself? In Saneworld you are sick, severe and enduring. Lying to me in Saneworld, when I visit it, which I limit, it makes me sick. Of Saneworld. I have given up my bed in Bedlam, ate my way through the chain and beat my way through the dogs into unterzone. I don’t believe in you; don’t believe in me. Taking my confession..? Half my life inauthentic to myself. There’s worse ways to be beaten than with a belt.

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As my father would have put it, “childish nonsense”. I can make myself full of pain, cracking it at others like a whip. Filed away or filed down, the core would remain toxic gold. Love falling from the top of a long flight of stairs. Are you falling from the top of a long flight of stairs? I am repeating my steps at the top of a long flight of stairs. Can you see me from the top of a long flight of stairs, across these space flights of stairs? Snowflake humans bumping down like meatware Slinky’s. Or spilling like milk, sticking to all it covers. I receive, accept and am grateful for the gifts of the dead, their living guitars, unstilled voices, imposing spirits and nulled minds. Anybody can see that here I am. A parasite upon genius. All my anger is righteous In desert, water Living on nothing I found all before The nerves of the machine Need to be cleaned The last in the series Animal spirits In the bloodstream Below the floor Where the rats live That’s where I belong

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