digress from this river that flows into a straight line. the following here
will be that there is another body waiting at the brink of
another figure lacking in speech: brook as excursion.
this plaintive leitmotif this afternoon. everything smells
of old furniture. something this is trying
to preserve wrung out of suspicion, shorn out of air
and unrest. when I begin saying it, and when I become
what I want to become, I will fold you in a manner
of houses. tell me of the footfall before I plunge.
outside my home you will be waiting
for a question because you liked the idea that
askance is the heart of all assertions.
and I will slowly begin to realize that imagination
as machine, has not failed me.
when moved by the sight of you,
gradually dissipate.
when halted by the inching step of
your basis,
take a moment as evidence
and use as ground for furtive contest.
when there is evitable cipher of silence,
I will phrase gestures into something like a metaphor
would induce
when there is meaning, there is the moving away
and coming unabashed, pendulum your way into two walls
as weathered as this house. Your face, a thousand adorations.
your heart a truism in the heat
of naivety in place of a wild embrace.
your hands this evening, tremulous, nervously seeking
to be one with my measurement: this thing that has nothing to do with me,
except we have such fondness over allowing sorry states.
that we have use for what we have no use for. This thing,
a fragment so foreign to me,
like hearing my name disintegrate, as if a thing
of obsolescence, as everything is.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
digress from this river that flows into a straight line. the following here
will be that there is another body waiting at the brink of
another figure lacking in speech: brook as excursion.
this plaintive leitmotif this afternoon. everything smells
of old furniture. something this is trying
to preserve wrung out of suspicion, shorn out of air
and unrest. when I begin saying it, and when I become
what I want to become, I will fold you in a manner
of houses. tell me of the footfall before I plunge.
outside my home you will be waiting
for a question because you liked the idea that
askance is the heart of all assertions.
and I will slowly begin to realize that imagination
as machine, has not failed me.
when moved by the sight of you,
gradually dissipate.
when halted by the inching step of
your basis,
take a moment as evidence
and use as ground for furtive contest.
when there is evitable cipher of silence,
I will phrase gestures into something like a metaphor
would induce
when there is meaning, there is the moving away
and coming unabashed, pendulum your way into two walls
as weathered as this house. Your face, a thousand adorations.
your heart a truism in the heat
of naivety in place of a wild embrace.
your hands this evening, tremulous, nervously seeking
to be one with my measurement: this thing that has nothing to do with me,
except we have such fondness over allowing sorry states.
that we have use for what we have no use for. This thing,
a fragment so foreign to me,
like hearing my name disintegrate, as if a thing
of obsolescence, as everything is.
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