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