Manifesto

The one you’ve killed is dead, and to be dead is to be nothing.

Nothing fills the space between us. Nothing is a cloud of spores.

All past manifestos have avoided inimicable topics

such as love, but love waits like a mycelium, dormant for years.

This manifesto is not an intellectual. This manifesto is a virus.

This manifesto is a protein sheath holding you inside it.

The principle was an idea and ideas are ripe for resurrection,

though this means eternal dying. Photons give of themselves

to your eyes a picture. All perception is a lie sunken into

flesh that holds like a hollowed eggshell. I stand at the door

interpreting your sleep, and the meaning of naked limbs

that have held my fingerprints. Futures are built on erasure.