Sunday, December 30, 2018


Sometimes I write as a self,
Or as me, as the body,
Mark Jeffreys, the beast.

Sometimes we compose as words
Who’d rather speak for ourselves,
Angels, ghosts, and souls,

Swirls of viruses
And mutualists,
Literally existing

In the air, through air
Seeding brains, pages, and screens,
Then flying away again

To seed others, to make them,
The beasts and machines, other.

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