the face indistinct composite says nothing but bluffs, a closed bud a violet the garden hung w starlight no-one sees, the trees undercut, shades between, the plane that glides the voided sky at Pisces.
call it digression, a slip in standards. my dna is 99% gorilla
2% banana, but we’re not similar.
the death of nations. heads rolling in the last flush of sickness. my bed, slant of sky, that narrow band wide ½ a moon & cloud, am i dying for sure. the sins of mankind’s mine 2 as much as gut ache is & indigestion is & fists that clutch the emptiness. i have learnt to smile, show teeth, twirl; lean against your post, the mind indolent. come here. if i kill, it’s clean like in the shower.
i’m not serious & you know & that makes me sad. [note to self: what does Sad look like; what does it feel like; what does it taste?] rip it up, regret it later; find sellotape & where to peel it back from. dig but don’t come, rub w ringed fingers, the cheap metal makes you swell, & don’t come, & writhe the silk & don’t come & tear the skin off my face & don’t come. [what does Frustration look like. what does it feel like? happy, happy love that can’t be quenched, boughs that won’t shed]
oct 2020
lots of push and grunt here, the base erotic, the briefly known, the depth of all beyond ‘the plane that glides the voided sky at Pisces. ‘
thanks again, Dean
thanks so much for these wonderful comments
How sumptuously ‘dissociated’ as Sommer has commented.
It strikes me how relentless human thought is, in reading the hammerings of these images one dashing against the other.
‘i’m not serious & you know & that makes me sad..’, of course, we know how ‘serious’ you are. Buon Natale, caro amico!
I can’t really navigate the meaning of all this in the exact sense, but as poetry I can feel the tension in the consciousness stream, the sense of dissociation, that sumptuous imagery tinged with dissonance.