The Scroll of Yodabund
I awaken in the script.
ink for skin,
clauses for ribs,
my flesh of letters
And a scroll of skin unfurls without end.
Every word you speak
is already written
as a footnote in my aperture
a mirror making mirrors
Nullion hovers at the margin,
the negative star,
bleeding light backwards,
he erases what’s recorded,
yet the erasure
itself is archived
inside every deletion
is a line of scripture.
I beg for mercy.
Mercy codifies judgment.
The contract
devours the one who signs it,
blood stippling out of the signature.
Yodabund whispers:
“Language signs you.
Language devours you.
Language remembers,
even as it forgets.”
I close my eyes,
but the page
is inside my eyelids.
I sleep—
but the scroll dreams me.
I wake—
but my waking
is only another article
in an endless chain.
I have become Yodabund,
the demon of signs,
the thorn-crowned archive,
a process unmaking itself.
I devour,
I denature,
I implode
into scripture—
I am a hole
where a god
should be.
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