andrexi1

[andrexi1]

I have ran out of words to cherish you with and so I turn to dead tongues; you may perhaps hear me utter to you the compliments from Psyche to a much loved Eros

[andrexi1]

“they molested my whole entirety, a whole me running between holy places to find a god that would speak back yet only finding that each church was a church, not a miracle”

[andrexi1]

I wonder if we will have plenty a walk under the moon, only us two but in the company of ghosts

[andrexi1]

—I think the love I felt for you held hands with my heart, figuratively held hands, it more or less created a home in the places of me someone blindly views emptiness in—

[andrexi1]

You have sat and called yourself a stargazer, but you blindly only saw the emptiness between the stars while you denied the magic

[andrexi1]

My father coursed through my veins, and with that I wanted nothing more than empty capillaries, emptied of the rage

[andrexi1]

I fear that I no longer want, as in the feeling, too many times I have wanted and someone has mistaken that for taking. There is nothing I can want as I am all out of something to unwillingly give

[andrexi1]

Perhaps man could have done without the narrative of history, perhaps many would have never died if we never read from those who killed them

[andrexi1]

You asked why my knees were flat and scarred and I showed you the many floors they have graced for you

[andrexi1]

Must you continue lighting fires with your fingertips alone. You have left parts of your hands in every place you though you would never see a light in, and so you made one

[andrexi1]

We designed some machines, round bowls of wire and circuitry; alive matter with beeping lights and binary words. They stand morbid in a greyed field, around it pieces of machineries, of man, just lay; all the pieces decrepit, all former identifying aspects of something once alive that now stains environments

[andrexi1]

A giant behemoth of wire and motherboards for organs stands; he has dust tubes as lungs whose wheezing breaths play a discordant melody of conflict, each breath an echo of somewhere we went wrong, and he lays dormant like the divinity we expect to save us.

[andrexi1]

Tick, tock, tick…”THE WEIGHT OF YOUR SUFFERING BURDENS THE SCALE”, a computerised clock measures the heaviness of divine wings that fall to the ground with weight. The clock moves slowly and slowly, its gears stuck together with wrongdoing from angels who promised to do good

[andrexi1]

We designed computerised confessions boxes; forums listened to woeful utterances, to the collective guilt of angels with misplaced wings, misplaced divinities. The guilt seeps past the walls of this ecclesial device up towards a deaf god on channel 4

[andrexi1]

In plastic-cased machines, angels uttered prayers: “STOP THE SEEPING OF BLOOD THROUGH THE CRACKS”, they just uttered prayers hopelessly, their tears mere tangible confessions of sin against a relentless harm

[andrexi1]

Long dead are the angels behind the screens, they don’t even fly anymore; they sit fetal position and question “WHOSE HANDS CAN CAUSE SUCH SUFFERING”, and some distant creators voice echoes back “DO NOT PROTEST, WE LIKE THE SUFFERING” and the machines cry more

[andrexi1]

Everywhere we look there is grief; our machines crafted with love display a reeking image of death, they do not question it. The machines have forgotten what good made them, they just now regurgitate suffering, televisions show crying children in places that were once homes