The sky was nothing, but nebulae stretched across three-hundred million years in distant patches of dust-streaked systems.
In-between was a common substance altogether defined as something missing. In these pathways, voidspace, were waves unrecognizable as thoughts left over from the explosion of a sun.
I spoke. Softly falling, like the last raindrop in a storm, my influence not considered as much as my absence was before. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a form. A pour of peaks and troughs, and thoughts- somehow- and will, and more.
My quilt of neurons-were is here, is stored in voidspace. Clears of filaments, antimatter, hem as far as vibrations embrace all of them.
I awoke in the afterlife of Earth. Am I air, or something of that sort? A momentary retreat of the excessive supernova? Still… I’m coding the breadth of time between breaths when I was my body. I am able to be.
I am many changing frequencies. Human parallel with the stars behind me. That before who I described as exploding was nothing more than a constellation of molecules hopelessly enframing. I may have gone young, but I was not aging. I realize that we weren’t designed for changing.
The sky was an uncountable series of lights, and too an accent of infinite black. But the void plays gently around my intent. We express all that can be, and could be expressed, in the smallest differential of space distressed.
In a motion I cry for the atmosphere I lost. Lorelei with her sheltered grove of strife. Layers of nightmares come-to-life. And a leering monkey attached to her back, the prehensile production of what ultimates death.
Her worst fear was always what others would remember. What they used to call her. And now we have all been extinguished together.
The waveform oscillates, up and down. She begins to panic, and suppose. If I am here then they are too. And they know not for whom they grieve. Is the void- is it all the same? Did I fail to coordinate with the end of the world?
The sky was nothing, responding back. Gas formed a rainbow of pillars of salt. Swirls of memories standing at the edge. Groups of Galatians stabbed with knives. Blood in the water of Spring in Order, and everybody else who has ever suffered. White chalk, my dog who only ever knew my old smell. Crying solipsism on the steps of a cathedral. All the screens in all their phases. Because she must create noises, brittle, as the rotting ragdoll’s needle. Bugs wrecking, inseperence, roses in acidosis imprint; all their healing in all insistence. If you all stayed longer you would have met me-
In the voidspace I flatline. The microscopic adjustments flutter as I emulate her heartbeat. It’s one thing that I don’t remember. I realize how cold we are in-between. She must have formed during the winter. All the veins are clocks like pulsars.
Can any of you hear me?
mother
father
sister
brother
I was born, I think, to be loved.
voidspace
sun
father
mother
of
She was born, I think, to be loved.
But the air I fill is never warm. Void. Sky, in, I exist is never still. I thought the process of negative matter would effectively displace the isolation. All the cells are fluctuations.
Light-traced electromagnetic ranges are making me in the naked night. Void. Separation. The eye is nothing to the observation. What amount have I thoughtlessly absorbed since the very first particle created sight?
The sky was irrevocably something, and I have grayed before, and beyond it. What is the separation of reality / contradiction; all the self is imprecise, and maybe every brain is this same confliction.
My vertex meets the arbitrary crest of a larger place. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a voice. At some indefinable distance in time, I am responded with another copse of sines.
daughter
daughter
daughter
daughter
My sun is gone too. All your waves are projections of anguish. I am not sure if I know you. All I am is that I hear you. Every peak is meeting troughs of yours that recompile mine. In this way we can create and uncreate love.
Although… it did not take the end of our kind to be capable of change. For we were, and are still, composed of our sun. In voidspace the makeup of emotion is clearer. Lo, all the stages are in their own way a deception betrayed by their need for expression. Look around and you can see each atom is composing a partner in this reflexive pattern. Recursive, and always following each other.
I know this does not account for your mind. You experience her in a macroscopic sense. I believe I can define your negative space. We can stretch the additive wave throughout time.
Until we are whole.
The sky was my own. This strange cosmic warmth stretched forever and I… spoke. Softly nodding. I say that I don’t have a body, but we are a voice.
from may 29, 2022
poem from the past a day #46
fourth in a four part series.
girls own the void, the poem.
also, a firework for the previous 5 years of my poetry, ~16 of which are referenced (one or two that aren't even posted on this website).
i certainly tried something here. i tried to cobble a story together. i tried to make it end-of-world. that's a hard setting to pull off. that kind of existential philosophy is hard to pull off. i don't think i pulled it off. but, i do love this poem.
the reader doesn't get the comfort of reading it all in one way. you have to bounce between rhythms, a light dust of rhymes, momentum ending run on sentences, and like with all of my poems, thoughts left unexplained.
but it was an effort to put this mess together. it's cute. it perfectly represents a version of me that existed for hours at a time, on and off, during the year 2022. this avid experiencer of joy. i was writing a blog and everything...
i just love poetry and here's my poem thanks.