assorted old poetry
body marked like a map of old
a visceral cartography of impressioned mountain ranges
red and pale, the ridges of spine and valleys of collarbone
the borders of skin against skin
a mapmaker’s ink of teeth and nails and hair
reason uncreation
nothing save for their shallow breaths
kneeling
falling
the briefest pause
a sensory respite
and then
drowning in an ancient river
I remember you like
the taint of my nail polish on your skin
as I turned your wrist to and fro
trying to anatomise the mechany
of your floral veins
paint in the topography of our fingerprints
Fuchsia Rose toxicity
a sudden unfamiliar altitude
oh perhaps we should have should have
I
shift
through
the room.
Stacks of minutes
in the form of white paper.
I am looking at lost time.
What kind of cruelty
Allows justice to be administered
Punishment to be meted out
By an arbitrary judge?
What kind of power
Is great enough
That it can give
One control over another
That it can be complete
Even when divided?
What kind of right
Is joined by
cruelty and power?
stretched out along the shore
I think I love you I do I do
like murano glass I love you
blown out and stretched and shaped
by you
I love you.
Dear Sir, Madam
Please hold
A member of our staff will be with you shortly.
Good Evening.
Thank you for your submission.
However we are afraid that there is something
almost obscene
About your latest work.
We are afraid that we shall not be able to publish it.
We feel, that the presentation is
too stark
we are afraid, that there is a rawness
in the body of the piece
a sense of sinuous twisting
exposing a harshness a bleakness a brittle whiteness
or a pulsing singing
visceral
core -
- We believe
We sincerely believe
From necessity that this work is intrinsically,
Fundamentally incorrect.
We hope that you understand,
That we must be selective,
And until you strive to improve
We will not be able to continue.
To translate into the language of night;
half-waking thoughts,
half formed.
In learning to transmit
through a new medium
Not only thought but touch;
sound resounding against skin
But when transmuting fluidity
base mermaid alchemy -
a pause -
ah.
There was a dream I had once and
it was so sweet to be almost sad
We were sitting side by side
each picking thorns from our flesh
You turned to me and I thought it
how strange to be talking so easily
as the mound of thorns at our side grew
Walking into paradise
I saw a multitude of souls
All working
Stopping by a carpenter
I asked him why he worked
and he replied
If I stop I’ll see
plastic scrapes my hand raw but leaves only white
(’like the back of my hand’/'I feel so honoured’)
plastic scrapes my hand raw but leaves only white
slipping from my grasp
I let go
and everything slides tumbling but my hand is raw and my fingers empty-grasp-empty
‘I feel so honoured
Cleaning up on the floor kneeling
piles on piles, everything is organised but nothing is clean
The back of my hand stings but nothing is purged
Tidying, my fingers full -
a visceral cartography of impressioned mountain ranges
red and pale, the ridges of spine and valleys of collarbone
the borders of skin against skin
a mapmaker’s ink of teeth and nails and hair
reason uncreation
nothing save for their shallow breaths
kneeling
falling
the briefest pause
a sensory respite
and then
drowning in an ancient river
I remember you like
the taint of my nail polish on your skin
as I turned your wrist to and fro
trying to anatomise the mechany
of your floral veins
paint in the topography of our fingerprints
Fuchsia Rose toxicity
a sudden unfamiliar altitude
oh perhaps we should have should have
I
shift
through
the room.
Stacks of minutes
in the form of white paper.
I am looking at lost time.
What kind of cruelty
Allows justice to be administered
Punishment to be meted out
By an arbitrary judge?
What kind of power
Is great enough
That it can give
One control over another
That it can be complete
Even when divided?
What kind of right
Is joined by
cruelty and power?
stretched out along the shore
I think I love you I do I do
like murano glass I love you
blown out and stretched and shaped
by you
I love you.
Dear Sir, Madam
Please hold
A member of our staff will be with you shortly.
Good Evening.
Thank you for your submission.
However we are afraid that there is something
almost obscene
About your latest work.
We are afraid that we shall not be able to publish it.
We feel, that the presentation is
too stark
we are afraid, that there is a rawness
in the body of the piece
a sense of sinuous twisting
exposing a harshness a bleakness a brittle whiteness
or a pulsing singing
visceral
core -
- We believe
We sincerely believe
From necessity that this work is intrinsically,
Fundamentally incorrect.
We hope that you understand,
That we must be selective,
And until you strive to improve
We will not be able to continue.
To translate into the language of night;
half-waking thoughts,
half formed.
In learning to transmit
through a new medium
Not only thought but touch;
sound resounding against skin
But when transmuting fluidity
base mermaid alchemy -
a pause -
ah.
There was a dream I had once and
it was so sweet to be almost sad
We were sitting side by side
each picking thorns from our flesh
You turned to me and I thought it
how strange to be talking so easily
as the mound of thorns at our side grew
Walking into paradise
I saw a multitude of souls
All working
Stopping by a carpenter
I asked him why he worked
and he replied
If I stop I’ll see
plastic scrapes my hand raw but leaves only white
(’like the back of my hand’/'I feel so honoured’)
plastic scrapes my hand raw but leaves only white
slipping from my grasp
I let go
and everything slides tumbling but my hand is raw and my fingers empty-grasp-empty
‘I feel so honoured
Cleaning up on the floor kneeling
piles on piles, everything is organised but nothing is clean
The back of my hand stings but nothing is purged
Tidying, my fingers full -