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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.
The sky was
yellow
and there were
versions
of the sun
roaming

Electricity flicks through my ears
it all cares little for my animal fear

The sky was
intense
violent where so many
sisters
of the sun
shone

Run away slips vibrant through my brain
the mechanisms of life won’t allow me to remain

The air was
passive
in that moment
before
the balance
of sky broke

That moment was most of my own existence
but little of me matters in a brilliant indifference

I was some
carbon
one-tenths hydrogen
more oxygen
where she begins
everything

Composed entirely of one explosion
when I couldn’t oppose a single implosion

The ground was
shaking
and there were
vapors
becoming
of all that was stone

Plasma drifts by my tears
it so cares not that I disappear

All the clouds
soup or
already belonged
to her-
I am not
a witness

I am a passage through her cycle of embers
The critical atoms in her final center
from may 28, 2022
poem from the past a day #45
third in a four part series
a minimal thing describing the end of the world. thematically, not really connected to the other 3 poems around it, but the fourth poem will have a light storyline that allowed this one to slot right in.
perhaps now things are beginning to make sense. more later.
What is the separation of dawn and dusk
The spectrum of a self-harming creation
And lasting exactly as long as it takes
The mixture to disconnect into faces

Softly
falling
like ossuary waters

What fixtures of me will hold; dawn into dusk
The sections, I hope, of a beautiful thing
That bleeds into the same color
That it now is instead

Blurry euphoria and all too much
Like the complexity of flowers,
Poses, wraps, Antheia, paths
Direct and lifelong circumspect

Softly
falling
away
exploring

Before I sleep let dawnlight level
Afore what darkness had unsettled
The threshold pulled beneath
Increasingly brilliant morning’s breed

Exploding
softly
or i say

i can’t be one of the safe
shadows
unexplored for years

in light but the air
betrays
dawn stars and dusk

Softly
lift me
separate or
destroy

Something living between dawn / dusk
A pressure like the sky is collapsing
And knowing why but letting the pattern
Discretize in the dark of my pupils

What is the recomposition of like
Exactly the same compilation of light
Displayed in a larger resolution yet
Shattering shattering shattering

Softly
falling
like day destroys night
from may 27, 2022
poem from the past #44
second in a four part series.
the refrain's "Softly / falling" are, in part, taken directly from The Magnetic Fields song Sad Little Moon.
i have to be one of the brave
people
reaching out their arms

there is no wind but the air
plays
gently around my eyes

i step out
to easter
fallow
to second winter
under the archway
you find me funny

i have to be one of the debated
people
unafraid and free

there is no snow but the air
escapes
shivering from my throat

you follow
after me
after running
i find you didn’t raise me
even
for a second

you say i let you down; what
perch were you on?
you’re only ever dying in my poems

there are no words but the air
makes
connections i can’t make

softly
recalling
advice
to take my
time. by time
did you mean move on?

i have to be one of the some
millions
charting the night sky

there is no light but the air
shakes
light from inside my mind

i just cry
for even
the void
won’t take me;
in-between
the wrong two things

i have to be by myself
trying
accepting who i am

there is no wind but the air
at least
is staying here with me
from may 26, 2022
poem from the past a day #43
first in a four part series.
one of those poems that doesn't feel very special and important when you write it, but reveals itself to be immediately after.
i was engaged in writing several other poems at once- which is how all of these are made, together, at once- and a few of those others were capturing my attention more than this one, but i think i slayed here nonetheless.
this is about how i despise being observed, judged, and how my queer existence is something people can just choose to disagree with.
I won’t tell you about them-

The plants, I mean.

But…

I’ve kept them all cataloged

Nicely!

And the book is little, and green!

Heavy. And there’s…

Vines that bind it together when I give them light.

Also there’s a lot of pages

Blank.

Because I’m bad at drawing snakes

Of stems, and petals new.

They grow so quickly,

Quiet.

Soon we’ll see a Spring-

The plants, and me.

And I can seek more than seeds…

Little rounds things that describe nothing of their root network

So I wonder if I should be around all these plants that don’t speak-

Though I do record the silence in a heavy green book.

I also meet

The ground, and the Earth

I think in my head how I could see the roots.

Or draw colludes of quiet life matter-

I think over and over.

I think, and the vines are not binding the book any longer.

Sketches that I spent so much time with

And their loving, long aged descriptions

Fall around me.

I meet the floor

Take all of my plants

And I run out into the thaw before Spring.

The Earth!

And your Sun!

I hold up my pages so to again bring life!

I’ve just drawn some pictures of plants

Many more blank.

The Earth

And the Sun

The ground

Seeds, and vines

Do not bind together what no longer belongs.

I see this

And I see the clouds

Folded quietly around the Sun.

I think

And envision a life.

Only without the plants to be my friends.

I feel

Like a lot is lost,

But in a tiny way

Like sort of a seed.

Carried on the wind.

Blown out of its deep, but fragile network of support.

Away from the book

Binding

Failed.

In those pages were pictures of plants.

I won’t tell you about them-

My friends, I mean

But…

I’ll float away from the Sun

Separately.
from april 11, 2022
poem from the past a day #42
taking on a persona and perspective of naivety, i look at the sudden state of having no friends after coming out. fortunately, i moved past this event in my poetry very quickly and started looking to the future.
I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Chop it off of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun

No fun
And inward spikes along the skull
No fun
And many needles that can pull
Out from my gut. Many suture-making teeth
Unaligned and redefining what it is that makes me, me

I have tape on my body
Designating my body
All the parts of my body that don’t
Stay on for refrigeration
And I have no blood

No blood
And no communication, thus
No blood
May be injected and no blood will be discussed
No point along the flaccid rheme of plastic
Face-aphasia gleam. Like a scream of being me
And I no longer have a mouth

I have worms in my body
Reconquesting my body
From all the good that the doctor did
Before I am left on my own
And I have no fun

No fun
With a reverberating voice
Which plays off the worms in a delicate way
Who are symptomatic and symbiotic
And playing at taking my mind away
Reaching up in the way that makes me shake
Or forget for a second that the body is the face
And believe that scar tissue is a different thing who bleeds

I cast shadows of my body
Of my innards in my body
Separate that within me or just
Incise the brain’s connection
And I have no self

I have hitches in the heart of the body of my birth,
Burnt hairs in the heart. For something of that sort
Would recede in the stiff which retreat hundreds,
Thousands of wings just beneath my skin- Scalpel-
And receive them a light, receive them a glow. Set
Back the muscle, so receive them a hope in the light
And that leaves me far away, casting shadows at
Something new instead of something writhing apart,
But inside. Living, trying, inside-

I have nerves in positions
That would leave me in fission
Should they believe they are not me so
Fall insolubly throughout me
And I have no fun

No fun, under a winter’s slush, and a winter’s moon
Getting up to live in body unsucceeding on this earth
Getting off dusk’s transportation into an ocean current Oort
Sort of thing- sort of thing the brain thinks it must endure
Courted by endorphins into sirening, O doom
Dwells winged servants following a swell
Of themselves rides choruses, feeling the walls
Feeling the way this body grows a thousand smells
And stretches and oozes pus into the ocean current slush
I feel it all dry, form craters, stomach lumps

I have strung up scores of organs moving unconsenting while I sleep
I have unsent letters, and confessions, and an obsession with the Me
On tiny journal things, or stored in obscure folders, or in conversations,
Or lording o’re my brainpour down around my joints. More days sleep
Replaces personality; goring lovely caverns of flesh from my sides
And I have no fun

But silence. I have litres of melody hiding in the hippocampus
Sing-songy excuses for my pupalic inseparence
That turn into dry scatters- a bat’s ***** matter in a living cavern
My lungs and teeth shatter, and over sound gathers such
What makes a transforming music so more the flatter
And I have no voice any longer

I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Let me out of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun
from april 5, 2022
poem from the past a day #41
both a fun and a not fun poem to read. it's loaded up like a burrito with ingredients that you don't love as much as others, but it's not spoiled.
the refrains "...and I have no fun" have restraint (like all of my refrains), but the bridges- the bulk- is all so indulgent with its dozens of words going around the mouth in pain. But, I can't help myself. I started writing poetry because I had words words words all through me, so I cannot deny my instinct to shed skin like No Fun.
I just feel like this is a poem with a central idea that could be done so much more elegantly. And- oh well- here is a poem.
And I have no fun.
Waed, for a stain- a split second- gains strength
Shade of red amid a gloomy wavelength
Made rainbow saturated in vulture’s stench
Splayed, festering on asphalt and blaring outwards “Death!”
Waed- like reaching outwards, pulling at my breath

Aid not for a laid out system of cells killed,
Pomade out on the gas station pavement
Came He, vulture, for a mind filled
To unbraid scents, spent nights, days unfurled,
Aid He not even the shade between brain wrinkles

cloud smudge the carrionoil spill
i am scared- i am not- oh, how these thoughts fill,
cloud, smudge my carrion coil- just how still
do i lay for the vulture?

Bore, they, holes along me for centuries
For, He, deathly centered in my memories
Gore and tasteless fluid ley my heartsease
And tore slowly through my arteries
Or seeped sour ‘round like nectaries

cloud smudge the carrionoil drips
i can feel the rain- i cannot- it licks
waters mix the carrion spoil- just how styx
splits away the odour
from april 4, 2022
poem from the past a day #40
a poem that came from its rhymes. it's like- when don't really have an ٭idea٭- you just gotta turn your brain off and rhyme made with splayed and came with pomade and unbraid to aid or waed. beyond that i enjoy the utter anxiety of the third stanza, it's sort of creepy. imagine dying and having the thought "okay i'm dead but what am i supposed to do with my body?"
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