propaganda of the dead, their rigorous tongues stressing fitfully, they shy their languid eyes from us, us being held as a lien. we cannot eat in their presence, we still believe in respect, sometimes we think we are alone until we lift our gaze, and their vacuumed lids fall onto us. we cannot find the message amongst the medium. the white lace and the promises. placing our ears on their sunken chests, drawing fluid from their lungs to make the tea, the liquid must undergo multiple transfers to take on value and flavour. all talk of the future is criminal, a cyst on the side of the eye. we are walking already. we have only just begun. we refuse to speak to the dead, they know what happened to them, they know what happens to us. the knowing draws them out, colours their edges. there is no transgression of their lines. we have learnt the rhythms of those who oppress us. they were able to suspend their heritage, and we have taken it on. they placed their pulse in our palms. their husked breath edges. we have become embolised. we are discussing what to do and it bruises us. we listen to the rasping, the work of literature. they have finely shaped heads and masses of black curly hair, their lips disclose collections of perfectly formed teeth, they are our gravestones. this is the time of the tooth, how it breaks.