Poetics

basic freudian fantasies

the things i feel towards this war are basic

the color of water, for example, the hieroglyph for water*

a child talking to a stranger, a leper in a race

The sketches and emotions of a small animal.

you and i are a sorry experiment for a positive mutation.

 

i come as a book bound in soft leather

invisible ink, thoughts as dogs in a ruined town

gathering the spoils of war, where you are, your windswept hair

unskin me, make me your open book,

ask what it must feel like to rape an angel.

 

my mouth blooms like a cunt

no, like fresh pastry in the morning

something like that. you are my cult: you are my cult

that which i must hurt myself with, a queit rain inside me

 

a house at the beginning of a river

just like this body is the beginning of thought

stuffed with the remains of wars we will not wage,

the tips of your fingers are music

long, like the distance the light from the stars has to travel,

 

small moons, your nipples, in a different kind of calendar

what i need is to dispense language,

retire also from inaction

grow a garden across your belly

and spend evenings crushing flowers across its length

collecting nectar at the belly button

 

taking it home, down mons pubis,

to that celestial and unclean grace

purple sunsets are not about symmetry

but the light that must die for us to live.

We used to fight death with sex

Now, we must kill small animals to discover self.

 

* a phrase from ahdaf souef’s a map of love

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