The light glides through the stones, a petty white curtain stands
between us, creaks of the bed, tidelike movements, cars passing, I hear it, an
engine heart, the world that exists the world that is, outside. How does it
always play the same worn out song, like a fading memoir, the gramophone of all
the streets , of all the souls, an aggregate of humans, that wraps me like a
blanket, enters me through the eyes, the toenails, the heart, cracked open, a
chestnut. holds me in dispute, on edge unasleep disawaken, permeated. An unrest, an illustrious format of my being. God of Atheists [a prayer] why did you not
make our walls thicker, those of our houses, those of our eyelids those of our
hearts?
God of all things paper thin, [a plea] to rip easily, to be
see-through, to resemble a nothing mascaraded to exist, a carnival of
significance. You only left the nights for feeling, cemeteries.
Light pokes, tickles, mocks the absent, the avoiding. Creaks of the
bed, creaks of the untruths I refuse to sleep on.
Then light flashes from a phone screen of words, of
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
It’s almost as if I hear gunshots the night
contains, the night smooths, the night opens its hands for another grave, the
memory expands, the bed creaks, I am standing and I am walking and I feel I
exist even through the night denies me. I hold on to ideas I have carefully
chosen myself, savour the self-inflicted illusions. The time accelerates, the hands tighten. I grip, I
demand existence from the unconsciousness of a night faking itself. I pretend
its pretending. All The Words so antithetical to those ideas I have chosen, they
feel crafted, the phone screens give me an anti reality, the reality of the
world outside has found its way through the stone. The words look at me, why is it that what chooses what is real is
always beyond us? I beg the night to pause, I want to choose what is mine for
one last time, then we both look away as I grip you in your sleep. The screens
tell me , they don’t allow me to overwrite what is of factual substance without
unwriting myself.
In panic, in contempt , in terms with, in compromise, in the middle
of graveyards digging the thoughts, the words caressing the ever passing light,
the streets, what we were never but were. Existence doesn’t exist! I think, I
grip, I know, I hear, I translate I see, I close the eyes,
I
Wonder
How many nights will it take to forget that for you,
like a fork,
like a brush,
a hairdryer
irrelevant of my every human soul
like a chair
like a little thing
I was a difficult obedient object.
