Spaces Indefinite

We are the silences of uninterested lovers

You are the pleas of a man

I am the force dragging the pleas closer

A relationship as such

Mathematical

We are the pains of unrequited desires

Me the bedside lamp that remained shut

You the homeless night that lay beneath it

A connection inevitable

As a noun strong and absolute:

Relationship

A physical one

Like that of water to steam

Maybe if one heats you up they will get me.

Or we are a relationship logical

One is one or the other

But not both

Then one cannot be one with another.

Maybe we are the silence and the tear paired in one evening hug

A relationship antithetical.

Or we have that of the air

We find ourselves in one room of the house today

We are breathed in another

Out in the streets

Inside the cupboards air staling tomorrow

Like atomless atoms we know our mass

We know our speed

But not both.

normally distributed around moments, first moments

second

a relationship negative like that of pride and together

a hypothesis tested

     inconclusive

Is this then a relationship causal?

If not in our petty minds

in the soul that lives between our fingers tense

Found against each other athirst for time

As if they were touching before they touched.

A relationship complete and injective

defined over indissoluble proclivities.

You are the partial disambiguation of my soul.

The taste of another woman

He stood there wide open
his eyes wide open
his arms ladders to his lips
a pair that meant so little then
and so much now
so much in time units
so much quantified by the gravity of the human ticks of the clock
the sunrises together and the sunsets
the darkness together separated by the light grabbing itself from the edges of the bathroom door
light left lit to see the edges of your wondering eyes
light stumbling to leave you bottom lip bitten naked

For a moment an ocean was lying there with us
between me and his arms where 2 inches and an ocean
and I looked at it wondering
if this is the sea I will dream or drown in
if this is the time to float or swim to the shore
and if the waves will break me on those edges
surronding his chest uncovered.
I tasted his lips
and there it was.

Something inside me was left dancing in the true colour of his eyes
I felt my numbing mind lying on the meeting of his mouth where the words had come from.

The horse and the sunset, the place where the words had been
the square coming to me from that opening
like an abyss in the midst of a river.
Across,
the words that bit the skin off my fingers whenever they touched him
In this choreographed drowning,

I found myself on some street
I found myself to be the man on the window watching
some ignorant strangers' way home
when they stab their finished cigar
on my doorstep.

Atlantas

Lying on my bed, that's after all where most of life happens, between those two stops out of the main road lay my thought. Stop one was the paper, the other was the dream.

I keep thinking about people. I keep coming back to them as if in some mysterious litany of salvation, as if I am the God waiting for humans to crucify me again, and through their holding of my hands, and the warmth of their fingers holding me together with the cross waiting to feel the love that longs my heart to be saved from the numbness of happiness.

This is where my thought had been. This is where it was born this afternoon. I lay down with it like a lover betrays his love, for the body, like a lover finds his own love unbearable to carry, I lay down and the thought lay on me like a foreign body. And I was not the God in this world that came to me. The people whose thought brought me there were not asking for forgiveness, the carrying of the sins was for them I found, some sort of obligatory exercise of empathy. Those people stayed silent, it is a praying and ordering, it is an imposing crowd I live among,  this world was wanting me to stand on my two feet, some mere exercise that its unbearableness can stand there with me, the foreign body hanging from my chest dead and me dying with it. And lying there with the body spreading over me still the evening found me still too, physically alive while some soul inside me screaming for the cross.

It is me who asked for these thoughts I know. I ask for them when happiness withdraws into some miserable search for causality. Some fingers on my hand moved, almost as if it was someone else's hand hanging on the side of the bed. I stayed, I let the cross fool me, dishevelled into some idle comfort of sadness.

What a weakness it was that I let myself dream for a moment the room full of doors opening, I dreamed the sound, I smelled the shoes walking in drenched in the rain and the weight meeting the eyes wondering where is it that my surprise was coming from. Is it surprise of affection reciprocated? Is this surprise of affection reciprocated in the same way, for it is only in those comfortable similarities that man understands a man. I thought the eyes of the man opening the door and the misunderstanding put me in that chair tied up, light blinding me and the blindness made it known that I knew what I wanted from the hand who got me there. The search brought him to the meeting of the eyes . It is not affection, that surprised me, the bringing of the feet and the hand to my doorstep seeking some fox's eyes, it was the feeling of the door opening and affection finding itsself incapable of lifting the weight that had me there, the instand urge to keep the door shut in the fear that she would find its way there, and realise it's insufficiency.
In the absence of love,
I was the Atlas.
For isn't love the wanting to lift of a human's weight? Or is it becoming the Atlas for wanting to lift the weight love wants to lift for you?

It dawned on me that in the absense of love I had to lift my own weight
It dawned on me that in it's presence I shall by now know that love is wanting to lift my own weight still.

Sounds of drowning

A child running alone hungry for the hand of a stranger
my love, abandonment in a house of mirrors, still
fascinated by one’s own reflection, a drinker
of paradise.

I put paradise between us.

I put paradise into small perfume bottles.

I spray them on my naked skin and lie in bed enjoying the radiant feeling of them soaking in

like thoughts of hands

tangled against each other.

The drink poisons me in some glorious fantasy of illusions, and I become a queen I become a beggar and I become a starless 4 am gazing out your bathroom window. In that dream, I feel the carpet first caressing my back and toes then I feel it pinching 

as the weight lies above me.

How do I love? Words failing, words wounded lying everywhere. There must be words to document this. Are there words to make you feel it? I feel a writer. When I fall in love. The insignificance of everyday tortures becomes glasses full, 

drops running on the sides of my lips 

I hold them clumsily. I write about me. Not me the person.
Me the idea of a thousand clicking belts getting undone, of myriad fireflies stumbling in the garden dirt, of too many closing of the eyes to enjoy the thinking of us. 

Squeezed voices are coming out of the glass and I lie there murmuring them at a million rhythms.

How many ways are there to feel the want of you. I think them. I chase them. 

They slip off my mind relentlessly for I am, 

in this very moment, only a small fraction of consciousness at the backseat of your car peering at the back of your neck, escaping that dictatorship of your collar, thinking the vertiginous ride and mistaking it for the sweet emotion of together.

Humming.

I spill myself on that very back seat. I let the fabric absorb me all. I let the me be absorbed by the beams of light coming out of that small back window. Eyes closed to think. I wonder if you will. Will I tonight stain your delirium those 3 seconds of pacing the bridge to sleep. Will you roll in my breasts when I become a bird of paradise and you the feathers that fail me above the seas.

And when in the depth of the darkest ocean,

between two drownings

Will you be the creature to swim past me
and devour the corpse left
by the
burning
of the morning sun? 

Sleepwalker

Walker of corridors narrow
airless
dayless
your clothes know the smell of night
your hands hold scars of hardwood flours
your eyes a thousand boxes
opened at once
with the time that covered them flying
lying in the corners of that small room you call heart
Walker of unsettling sounds
Your walk a prayer to tonight's silence
passing its child's fingers through my hair
Dawn finds your prints lying in some folding of the sheets
Dawn waits
Dawn pauses
Dawn wonders
where have you been sleepwalker?

Blindness

There is no beauty
hidden
here.
Only blindness
Blindness smeared all over the walls.
Blindness still.
Blindness silent
in the script of a made up language
sounding spoken confusion.
Shadows rise up the concrete
shadows climb the words.
One thinks the figures for people
man made names of Gods
calling themselves lovers
making themselves perpetrators
running from syllable to syllable
but finding no beauty to corrupt
but that of solitude, uncorruptable.

Cause there is no beauty here
of that of waiting dawns
of that of drowned ideas
of that firing hands of forgotten peoples
to shame the God we made up together
No
I am now almost certain that
there is
no
beauty here.

Certain
We've hidden from pain so well
dexterous morons
We've hidden
that no happiness finds
us anymore.

We live eternally
flowers growing in cupboards
parasites smiling in the darkness to miss us
missing the darkness smiling back sometimes
cripples of emotion for no eyes can see
so black and pitch is the ill sounding word
for so distant is the human experience

Our gray faces grow scared
our scared minds grow gray

and no beauty is born here
and no beauty finds us
and no beauty stands us
and its been so long since I've felt a man with eyes
that no wonder
no beauty
needs to hide
here
anymore.

Segmentaufwand

Have you ever crushed the fingers of a child
with the heel of your shoe
forced the weight of your body on them
Hear them break under his tears?
hear the symphony of screams?
Has power ever done that to you?
Has power ever made you do it?

It's ok
Du musstest
It happens sometimes
You have to
it is necessary
the kid wronged you
Repeat it again
Then the cracks of the fingers fall into this majestic harmony
Greatness feels that way sometimes:
Disgusting
It is an intrinsic part of helping others
It is a Necessity
that's it.

For one to watch the eyes change from pain

How about thousands of people?
Did you ever have to?
Their dreams and aspirations
An unbearable weight to drag
It creates sounds that weight
As you crack the fingers
The sweeping sound of shoes as they tip off balconies
The silence after a gunshot of freedom
The noise of skin as needles of joy get pushed under it
The loud stomach of children
The loud eyes of children
The sound of chalk as it glides on the empty board

The figures are rising together
Nattumsatze!
All a parody of capitalism

And you who is so good with numbers
And you who is so good with surpluses
And you who is so good with capitalism
Tell me

How much does dignity cost?

TELL ME

How much for a pair of eyes?
How much did you sell them off for?
How much was it until you had to?
Until "I needed it"

Costify me
Angela
Crucify me

For I ll become a martyr
For I ll defuse myself in the water that you drink
For I ll colour myself blue and white in the colour of a coffin
And I ll put my words in it, all the weightless soundless words
For I lie the weight of a nation on your shoulders
For I raise myself to the size of humility
While you become another inkblot "salute"
In the shames of history