When I was what you could call ‘virulently atheist’ I remember warding off any future professions of faith with great vindictiveness. What did I expect? I imagine it was a form of self-reinforcement.
I would say… if, in the future, I profess faith, then you can know that it is truly a mistake. As if to protect and account for my future self, who would undoubtedly have gone through an incredible transformation.
I’m still atheist, I’m just a lot more materialistic about the cultus now. Now, I would say of my future self – if he professes faith, just be kind to him.
Say NO! to hysteria
Metre and syllable limit are machines to make beautiful language, or good poems. There are others, among them actively thwarting metre and syllable limit. These machines routinely break down, when they are not understood as machines.
After John Atkinson Grimshaw
You don’t yet know the fae.
Its church arches and bones.
It overlays on the trees
which become a seething delta
How the pools reflect black
to spite what they note above them
never sure of the horizon
your gaze wanders, unceasing
thin and twisting flowers
the green, and floating flakes of gold leaf
the faintly blue of the night
then, which slips alongside – her;
uncreasing the folds between worlds –
her insect wing-shimmer. And bright
shines one thing nakedness can do
mournfully at you, with a crown of flowers
The fae curves just like this.
It worships with patient light
that which you may worship.
If she wants you, touch the canvas
Sometimes, particularly after bouts of prolonged unspecified pain, sometimes I feel like my body isn’t mine as my lips tingle and a virus makes its lonely way.
I lie, hot under the sheets and think of manipulating your body, the soft human fur over the slightly sweat-damp skin, the malleable hardness of your skeleton and its firm muscular grammar, I imagine grasping you and laying you on top of me like a pillow or a cat, and it is a sweet dream, as sweet as the dream that first drew together the word sweet, the sweet of bittersweet, and dream, the dream you can’t tell is unreal, and never want to wake up, this sweet and this dream, together. And I imagine or hear your voice singing, please, please, in all languages, over and over ’til your eyes pierce me and I burst.
If I am desired in my dreams with no resentment, then it is possible. I have reached a place of acceptance, where the moths land and scurry along my skin, and I watch them, feeling love. Later as I lie gazing into the sky I watch unfold a vast pink rose on a teal field where the night stretches over like a duvet tent, and everything seems okay.
As we stand and talk about bread
The various types
That the days conditions left,
Under the light
Of the sun which peels the day
Just like the last
segments of warm clementine
And swallows the rest
The materiality of you rises
With force to greet me
Through your mouth and other pieces
I feel your embrace already.
Its a nascent form
Of seers insight to a body
Sensing the dirt
My mind’s soft worm burrows in
Feeling our heat
In this brown paper bag, and then
we take short steps out