We stood in the corridor speaking of dreams we still had
Both semi-closed to the abundances of before that said otherwise
Whether or not it could be said again, the lights were half-lit so half-bright
We stood in that corridor giving it a distance for the time that was not yet done.
We laughed because we knew and, again, we did not
It was easier to say that way and it was funny because it was not at all
And it became funnier because we knew how much we did not know and all before it
Both reminiscent of how wrong it had been and yet seemingly how right we could still become.
We stood unhappy and tired and full of life
Two unfinished dream states in a post-bedtime corridor
It was funny to see but we still spoke louder than our own comedy
We stood in that corridor and put any dreams of being awake to one side.
In my loneliness I love and I hate
And love will not console me
I always hate everything that does.
A hand is not the touch of another
Like a kiss that rivers a distance
Because we are born one at a time.
Make it beautiful because why else
Choose beauty because it is
And then lose it to no attention.
Towards the edge weakness grows
Where heat patterns are exchanged
It was only loss of contact that made the contact.
I choose to bring the leftovers home
I palm them in my nest of opposites
Ungrateful, they keep me awake.
I fell asleep and out of the world
I fell into a dream before a dream
And woke up half-way there
I woke up before the light
I woke up in the day-to-day
And the world was not the world
All the shapes but hollowed in name
Before things are one way or another
I woke up in time for change
I started to dream in this dream
I dreamt about space and bodies
Because I woke up in time for time
I swam pixelated in a broken night
Awake but not opposed to sleep
In a darkness that is not unbrilliant
My thoughts danced around me
Dreams of what dreams could be
Fallen out of the world and into its sleep
And as everything had to fall apart
I was put back together again
Woken up after, a day after
In front of all these things before me, I will do something
Behind all these things after me, I will do something
I will do something
It will not do about being seen or how it is that one sees
It will be done about not seeing and about not being seen
About all the time away
How it should only arrive again in a retaken promise
The non-speaking intention of an oversized gift
Whatever the aftermath in this divide
How things may have started before these things started
Since the start of the day is at the end of a day
The first day before and after
There are 10 more people than before
Other others and the endless years born between them
Ten on being ten more than ever and what life went into that
Another to an other and the decade of time that means every X years
A person I want to speak to is now older than the last time I wanted to speak
10 dates of dating the last ten times I said anything at all
And if anyone speaks to me, there are 9 people I cannot know at any one time
And they are speaking to me all the time
They tell me everything I do not know including the things I do
And there may be almost ten ways to every fact whether or not we count the fact of listening as just one fact in itself
I am spoken to ten years at a time
And I find a century in the mix when two decades spill over each other in the same breath
There are more years than people, therefore too many years for every person
Decades on decades of all the things overlapping in a time that separates 10 at a time
For 10 years a day I live for 10 people every year
I need both the mourning and the even-ing to stand at all before this decade of every lost decade
Sometimes, on the day that makes the day,
A reason that does not explain itself, a wave
That has nowhere to encounter, makes it
To the shore, leans over the island and
Turns it up-side-down, under the world.
On the day that is that day, a flood that
Does not look like a flood, convenes around
The space it turns into an insular mound,
Resetting the horizon above and below the
Water, taking it up from the ground.
Where a day could be, but is not, before and
After a day, it is sometimes the time of the days
The ocean that covers a peninsula, unfinished,
Of an emergence that whets the whole
To the self-surprise of its own size.
This day is more than the days, it is
Unbegun, and therefore must behave
Watered and unfulfilled, but it must be
Bigger than the island of before, but never
As big as the ocean it knows now.
Today is a day of days, where the beach
Reclines under the humidification, made up
Of sands helpless with the old examples of
Eroded versions of what it would have been,
Had it lived forever as such, unperturbed.
On a day I will split my head open and let the anxiety juice spill out onto the floor. It will pullulate from the cracks of my broken eggshell skull and ruminate from the meetings of my face and hairline all the way down to the bottom that will horizon the flow. It will valley over awkward protrusions and cascade between uneven cavities that lie unbodied in its course. The soles of my feet, where my action usually ends, will feel it at the edge of its posterior course. The puddle it then forms will lake a leak for a while before exuding entirely. I, myself, will not fall over until the dizziness from nothing left makes me fall in on myself. I will crumble to no more than the width of my standing circumference. People, who were in no way witnesses to this detachment of things, will not walk over my fallen remainder because it makes no difference either way, as there is no reminder.
I will crack my head open like a nutshell and there will be no one left to stare. The headache that had been within will evaporate in the size of everything else and finally live long and prosper in the nation it knew better than I did, the borders it wanted more than I ever did. The pretty suit left over will drop softly through the height of its full standing and lie in on itself – a flat cylinder. The rest of me in a pool dedicated in memoriam to being left alone. Someone will pick me up and wear me for a joke on some uncomplex evening, possibly for the purpose of entertaining another person native to a country I would have never known. We will be three people dancing on that poetic night, minus me of course. The poetry is a given because it exists everywhere just as it is, as does my headache now. Nothing hurts. The pain of having gone through this experience is the new plain and unbreakable horizon for the answer to all future pain: it has been lived, it is done.
At first I will remove my ears and my nose, then I will take off my lips and one layer of the skin that surfaces my face and, after that, finally, I will take out my eyes. A very fine and dry sand will start to seep out from the gaps formed at either side of my head, the sand will slowly hourglass onto my shoulders, creating a finite but melodic sound as it reaches its first base. A similar evisceration will occur through the nosey opening at the very front of my face, only this one will make it to the bottom of the world in one single fall, and the musicality of its journey will be much harder to discern from its one great stretch. But a much more humid, although still grainy, substance will scoopingly drop from the unmediated passageways of my lip-missing mouth and my empty-looking eyes. This one will gravitate with a more deadening impact; moisture in its directing – much heavier, more certain to fall, even if everything else is still going to fall anyway.
I feel like being sad and thinking of only you. I think that I feel this way because, only a few moments ago, I was thinking of you and feeling sad.
I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night
I disappear in the ideals that mean more to me than I do
I do and I do and I am tired and
I hope that someone who can make me better notices.
I feel everything I feel always for the first time
Everything is absolutely unique in the boredom of interminable renewal
Because an increase or a difference happens onto something that was not itself
It happens onto something before that was not it, and it increases what it was by being onto it now
I say what I feel because the difference pronounces everything anyway
I have to be sad to write this, I have to not feel like doing anything else
I have to have the person I want to notice not notice, be entirely ignorant of this
By myself, the time, to feel, to feel it again, and remember the difference
As if this were the culmination, as if this was to be all that that feeling was
Perfectly remembered in this lack of a developing future
I am stuck in the time that reminds me of being alive
The actual difference of what I want is subtracted from what should show me that being
How am I?
I am fine again,
I am who I am again
I am yesterday, as I will be tomorrow, as I was going to be today before today
I am not changing and everything else is changing so that I do not change
Every new feeling more than the last, or different from the last, but enough of a change not to let me change
I am not decided by something that actually happens
Something that could happen
But what then if I could actually identify with something I had done because I and it had been for the moment, to make the moment, a moment as large as my name,
And not just my name once again repeated in yet another feeling that erases the effect of my name
That I may have landed, arrived in the dark
Not slept for a night and found the itinerary of the unembarrassed movement of everything anyway
That I could have trapped a segment for my own becoming and held it for a moment
And gave you my name
Despite everything that might be said
Despite everything I might feel
Despite everything I had felt
Despite the non-sleep
And the arbitrary difference between this feeling for now and whatever memory I had to have of feeling before
Despite not feeling like it,
I could still try to say it, to become it without trying to forgive myself for not being able to change
For not being able to be it, but saddened always already just by the thought of it
Because it had been more, always more than what I could think of it
Because it was with you and the person I imagined to be with you as I had imagined a whole world out of the undefinable logic of such an example of things
You and you again
As I could not even think of me.
Close of disclose closer to closing. Clothing.
Birthday bones wrapped in skin. I enclose a gift.
This is a repetition not because it sounds like one.
It begins by oscillation, plateaus and then it looks like itself enough to distance
To not know itself, so it can hide itself without its own knowledge
The unfolding, taking clothes off, by literally putting them on.
This is the same thing.
Disclose of the closest to non-disclosure of writing. Cloth.
The thing I put it on is the thing I put on. I put in.
I am put in.
Non-knowledge of acknowledgement.
It begins because I can give myself away.
My Self to myself and myself to My Self. I dress really well.
Life is on the surface, going in is not knowing, either.
After the plateau the promise of its opposite might revise the surface. Dying.
Either or more what I put back on – repeat my dress sense
Acknowledge of gift not wanted. I cannot give myself away.
Knowledge of giving not-wanted.
Biography of hairs growing from out of the skin.
The skin covers itself in skin. Skin is not skin.
Texture and text.
Knowing how to put it on without it
Is the acknowledgement
The acknowledgement of dis-closing, un-clothing
To forget, to make sense, to put it away
To look at it again, having not seen it for a while
Dead skin – the last before the skin of the skin
I dress it up, cannot give it away
Sense-making sense, wrapping, not uncovering
Undress of the wound
Unwrap the curtailed, the curtained
Uncorpsing, dead instead
The self-eroding coast
Self-erasure under a sweaty cloth
Closure to being close, closer to being again
Repetition is the fundamental
because it does not suit the same way
because it does not suit the same thing
I am covered in it, discovered in it
This hairy uneven texture soaking in the sun
Self-involved, uncomfortable, expelling itself from itself
Overwriting the meantime
Accepting or not accepting the gift
Taking giving away for granted
Given to it
The unasked so the unquestioned.
Being absolutely famous for throwing the body away
repetition only has to be skin deep to make something by itself impossible
I do not dress myself
An address of acknowledge
To be addressed if how can I address
Closest to going away to be far enough away
As much as living to giving and having been-given everything
In it I give to live
Endless birthday wishes
Like Birthday wishing
No greater government to give itself away
To acknowledge itself in front of the other side of not knowing
A surface covered in clothes more real than the ones I wear
It opposes my gift with its own birthday wishing
Its own ossifying self-discovery
But I do not know this
It looks like me but I could not kill myself on its surface
It almost suicidally disbelieves in the distance of my death
But it cannot die instead of me
This is why we should always be wearing our clothes
To acknowledge the nudity of why it is done.
To make it that naked.
Of where it is done. Address of happy birthday
A forgotten day of an unforgettable time
Closing in on the dis-closure
Unwearable, very worn.
About those I look like
I am on occasion the occasion
A water despite the ocean
That weathers on the face
And speaks only whence the ocean.
An ocean within the ocean on the ocean
When I name I speak louder than the sound of my name
I speak it on my own
How only everyone else knows it.
I speak to myself about those who know
And then I speak to them in the morning
As the sun dawns outside what was clearly yesterday
On the evening of a face on a face again.
On the hypothesis of knowing a place
I may be closer to thinking than could thinking get me any closer to where I am.
I may be closer to where I last thought than to when I last thought I would be here.
No intentions in the meantime
My point of view is exploded by you, in the distance
The way I am thinking of you is going to teach me about thinking itself
You are everywhere
I am all over the place
I time the timing of the longer and shorter distances
I read that time in the hope of seeing some new intention
Since I cannot mean, I hope that you will end
I am closer again when you are slightly nearer than that
I am always going too far
I am switched between states of differently abled existing
Meantime you, teaches me something about existence
There are no intentions
I am left to look after you when you are not there
I try to look after what you have just seen
And therefore I cannot agree with myself
I cannot agree with the separations
They would somehow have to agree with themselves
So I cannot but think about the difference between thought and hope
Trying to predict it, by talking about you
And then by talking to you
Having already gone too far
With the one unbroken intention
To never stop talking to you.
Can you hear the Jury grumbling as they take their seats?
The Judge cracks open the session with his bulletined order of events.
Like a tombstone of structured emotion, the prosecution states their case with a cackle of arrogance and bitter assumption.
“We are defending “the liberty of love” beckons the defence, but the patronising scoffs of despair and horror are normalised in this world of systematic tabling.
But I….feel nice here.
In my pot of soil.
On my patch of mud.
Withdrawn from production line patriotism,
And isolated from the sounds of their rules,
This pot gives me plenty of space to run,
I can feel its walls, but I can see freedom in the darkness.
And the silence echoes with a special…
“Thump, Thump”. Order! Order!
This striking sound of ‘justice’ deafens my minds(s).
One fails to recuperate such tranquil thoughts with the murmurs of an enlightened mob above them.
I do not infringe upon others movements,
The thought of asserting my morality gives me no amusement.
I have not relinquished my citizenship for a hovel of an existence.
But simply rekindled my sovereignty so that I could have independence.
I can hear the defendant interrogated and accused of a love based on guilt.
As if the prosecutor understands.. ,
Oh what castle of lies they have all built!
You see, in these worlds, grands delusions reign supreme.
Call whatever Witness to the stand.
They will testify to their own hypocrisy.
Offering perceptions born out of the fog and mist.
But in my dwelling, I provide no blurred convictions.
The love I hold, is not hollow but honest.
I am not swayed by unrelenting passions.
No bleakness can consume me,
because I have freed myself from my own harsh reality.
However, it seems that sentences must be carried out.
Children must be punished.
And yes, we must learn from our mistakes.
People need to have regrets,
and so we must control our own heartbreaks.
Though I live for the eternal, I can not forsake my liberty.
For my truth is powerful because it can shift.
It sustains my wriggle room in a life that constricts.
So when the jury makes their call, I will cackle in my chair.
For the courts can’t influence me, and their verdict is insincere.
I’m writing because I have nowhere else to go,
My chest moves but the air won’t get out of me
And I’m heavy, getting heavier, steadily sinking into feeling,
Sinking like a stone,
The presence of the present is pressing, overwhelming,
There’s no place like home,
No place to go.
I had a dream I was a child again, school was closing,
All the parents trickled by, smiling, little hands clasped tightly,
One by one they go, until –
I wake up and I’m alone
I make it impossible for anyone to love me
The disgust you feel is accurate
I will not be your human.
I am against god
I am what I am
I am divine.
A darkness so well thought that it is no longer there.
A constellation so brilliant it melts any planetary perception.
A form so pink it cannot prevent the sun.
I am not the right one.
I was momentarily in someone else’s shadow
Forgive me for appearing at all.
I am the One
Making the shade look so bright
That I am no longer here.
And it was my confusion only
Since I thought myself into existence.
God is an analogy of me.