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Working on the eternal sadness,
the stuff that cascades — avalanchine —
every time I lift apen.
It’s patient, really.
In life, in walking,
in sharing anything,
(or certainly in this life)
I control, internalize, and silence.
Every morning I wake up groggy,
wishing for more sleep, more dreaming,
a need to recapture that oceanic state
before being gashed out
into the light.
certainly now you’d know
the memories of flesh
and fine fire we’d find if
desire and deed weren’t
mutually exclusive
inducing new sprucings
regarding the enlarged
bargain I’m offering
proffering some sane
sense of lust
courage created this
letter to a stranger
a drunken inertia certainly
yet a curtain drawn
on a dawn–like certainty
bolder, blurrier, but less
worried
regarding the garden of
fertility
unburdened by
uncertainty
you took my hand,
uninspired and unfeeling,
to touch the warm and wet flesh clay pit
where all vessels are formed,
the furnace where all forms are forged,
to your cunt:
and I hardened.
my fist unfurled,
and coked your soft kiln,
and your lips met my head,
exceeding me.
you rocked me,
brought forth all the
empty bowls and filled them;
I filled your mouth,
shattered my clay shell
softened my spine
and fell.
barely recognise a penless self
until sinking back, drinking in and sniffing out
looking forward, finding straightness and curve
distance and closeness in the
snow of insight
I’ve lost touch.
No recourse to remorse.
No glasses to empty,
or to pull off slowly from a new one,
an objectification. An angry weight
waiting to launch itself down a
cotton veldt
and liquid cleft
heaving with heavy sugar cleaving.
soft and coy and able and alright
available, inevitable, illimitable.
overcoat. scarf. hat. mittens.
wonderland underthere. all ways.
there: always “always”.
never then.
never occasion.
recently bits and pieces
papers to chase, collate,
appreciate and decode later.
and here,
a lost friend,
waking history, a savored guests.