At noontime, it is severed,
just like in any other time. The walls no longer flounder but
crucify the ground or vice versa. Sunlight floods
bodies of rocks. At the height of illumination, there is no process
adequate to describe. The bramble of illusions swerves to allure.
Drunk in the surprise of the founding: the rusting roof from the nearby
school still there. Solid as entity, fluid as trance. Deep with the phantom
pain of it, I feel its drone marauding with even-inflicted sharpness of memory.
This is how far you’ve already gone, towards the invisible charm of falling apart.
There is an opening that is left behind. I found it here,
in the chasms suspended in an open field drawn together
in the alternative. This is all that you’ve ever lost.
Reclamation is a sure defeat. Retreat, you said but didn’t.
Straining towards this ruined object.
This will not wait you out. It casts its weight over my hands
struggling to take picture of, imperiled as if these unsolicited quakes contain
the image within a broken frame. Strife deep within a sense of responsibility
is to show you what was left – everything but wasted origin, demeaned by
the disintegration of, to suffer the penalty of decision.
To face the wall than each other, revealed in some place known.
All the junk of this requiem reused as deficiency.
Elsewhere it could be another thing, but to me nothing but a net
to falling, limbless creature, or a basin to the water of surrender.
It aspires to be something, to be another story of, to be a room of disappearance
is what it is to me – across the kitchen sink mapped out near the cupboard,
or the tiny, mincing steps to your room, the posters scattered everywhere like
avatars. The partitions still exist dividing real from illusory, far from near,
a luminescence or opacity – still dragging along the detritus, strophe by strophe,
rearing the intensity of artifacts but none found.
How does this breathe with no life? How do these ghosts ambulate
in the bare and naked space when horrors wish to be unseen? How this wishes to be
unperturbed in media res, and how it dissolves to be now, infinite, is substantial
to tragedy. To be consoled by nothing but the pure sight of a once dwelling.
Hang a picture of you in the wall. The wall the bears no foundation. This recall.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
At noontime, it is severed,
just like in any other time. The walls no longer flounder but
crucify the ground or vice versa. Sunlight floods
bodies of rocks. At the height of illumination, there is no process
adequate to describe. The bramble of illusions swerves to allure.
Drunk in the surprise of the founding: the rusting roof from the nearby
school still there. Solid as entity, fluid as trance. Deep with the phantom
pain of it, I feel its drone marauding with even-inflicted sharpness of memory.
This is how far you’ve already gone, towards the invisible charm of falling apart.
There is an opening that is left behind. I found it here,
in the chasms suspended in an open field drawn together
in the alternative. This is all that you’ve ever lost.
Reclamation is a sure defeat. Retreat, you said but didn’t.
Straining towards this ruined object.
This will not wait you out. It casts its weight over my hands
struggling to take picture of, imperiled as if these unsolicited quakes contain
the image within a broken frame. Strife deep within a sense of responsibility
is to show you what was left – everything but wasted origin, demeaned by
the disintegration of, to suffer the penalty of decision.
To face the wall than each other, revealed in some place known.
All the junk of this requiem reused as deficiency.
Elsewhere it could be another thing, but to me nothing but a net
to falling, limbless creature, or a basin to the water of surrender.
It aspires to be something, to be another story of, to be a room of disappearance
is what it is to me – across the kitchen sink mapped out near the cupboard,
or the tiny, mincing steps to your room, the posters scattered everywhere like
avatars. The partitions still exist dividing real from illusory, far from near,
a luminescence or opacity – still dragging along the detritus, strophe by strophe,
rearing the intensity of artifacts but none found.
How does this breathe with no life? How do these ghosts ambulate
in the bare and naked space when horrors wish to be unseen? How this wishes to be
unperturbed in media res, and how it dissolves to be now, infinite, is substantial
to tragedy. To be consoled by nothing but the pure sight of a once dwelling.
Hang a picture of you in the wall. The wall the bears no foundation. This recall.
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