Energy drips from hanging vines —

your vascular form, twisting rope

threads in a violent movement, conjoining

semantic with somatic fingers,

electrifying neurons to hold, to ink.


The page a stele of memory

etched from the incision of cognition

into rudimentary words, poor urns

for the ashes of your “who”:

pottery pieces fragmented and forlorn


like runes and hieroglyphs of heathens

and romanticists whose reality’s rose withered;

paper burning, pottery breaking—

ink, a water colour drenched to pale nothings,

bleeding white.


But the movement excites you

if it does not memorialise you.

Exeunt, the elegy and the farewell:

Feel vitality, vitriol; love and

hate the fleeting finality,

breathe bloody everything —

the pen ink moves red with

muscular energy, elegiac munitions

and the body writes with pounding veins.

Will Hunt

The author Will Hunt

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