from Becoming

By | 1 March 2015


The hunger in my chest
has a meaning.
Exonerated, clodded. Exiled.
I write to reclaim happiness
from the utter black drain
O enemy, i. thief of my solitude
& black mirror disowned.
shrug a cabal of lifelessness
kept hidden by the prosier emotions
i write to rid myself of these gods
who persecute me, violent harlequins
wearing my guise who’ve come to.
imprison you my lover, clean
The delicious line clothed in iron
suspended above the city
i walk daily
& am now clinging on with fingertips.
Should it be right that the lyric
touch requires my own forsaking.
mouth making
noise. hurtling fwd
into the vortex of space
it is clear that potential
is isolated, wretched & lying,
wreathed in the prism of my own
callous making.
how will i claim you but in the
infinite fertility of my soil,
my soul, my closing circle of breath?
but I cannot endure the deficit
round in which happy bankers
blink mercilessly as stars
& how can it be certain the deficit is
not in me when repeated
ly dousing my face in water
doesn’t bind it to truth
o glue of my feelings now
tearing the scenery APART
how many countless hours wasted
on pearls & rent when the one
thing worth having
is priceless as
a feeling, as graceless, sea-
oriented & perpetually FREE
well tell me what the meaning
of freedom is agent of my
redemption, colour-hewn eyes
glittering from all angles with
complete wisdom & suffering
the peace that is within you won’t
come to me thru writing – say it
again, organ guilt. toss it out
over the water bubbling in threat
of violence, merely imagined
posture of splitting apart
no miasma or ore worth saving
unless it can be used. how to
concretely act on a feeling
instead of batting it away like
an eyelash – stop-motion neon
boy in action / why only
alchemically available to me
in questions shrouded by artful
hands. diamonds of obscurity
smashing into the future. total
happiness attained – merely
beginning it frightens me –
conscious of totality only from
without its skin, on the lucid
hurting membranes. Let me
back in, love; sighs of a broken goddess
luminous in luxury kneeling at your breast.
not knowing you have it
is the context of possession, thus i
issue its writ to an amnesiac future.
only by ignorance of bliss, the familiar
features of a stranger,
precludes entry
or is this just a golden Modernist
gateway designed to shatter / expire?
perhaps there are as many paths to love
as veins in my body
Venus-veneris, steer me clear
of the depths.

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