Sky.
Mist pigments scrape.
Tattered remnants of dappled clouds.
Chrome yellow.
Translucent saffron.
Then ochre,
to umber,
to gloom.
Vision smudges into sound into touch.
Cricket rhythm—
Mind intuits the quiescence
at the center.
Order / Hazard.
Direct transfer:
nothingness into shuddering flesh
against the blast of sunrise.
Her.
Deer track wet.
Her rip tides.
Slake my thick old predation thirst.
But—
I am alone.
Like water vapor,
suspended in the empty medium.
A mirage.
Dining with ******
with lepers,
with fever-eyed puppets,
with whatever lingers
between the edges of sleep.
The brain settles for the image,
stored away somewhere in the synaptic catacombs.
Pulling up her scintillating portrait pleases it no end.
A self-perpetuating mechanism—
fragments clasp and cling together,
peeling away.
Drinking my fill of blood and saltwater
deep in the caverns of solitude.
The hollow-no-body devil god man
hovers between synaptic gaps,
languishing
among sharp fragments of thought,
hoping to string a few together,
to escape through a lone slit of starlight.
Exalt, suffer, howl—
scalping the loneliness
of the clotted, humid tropics.
Come back.
Hello.
Come in.
Are you receiving?
Let me know if this message makes it.
If it cuts through the concertina wire,
through the melting dusk,
through the dumb, hungry-eyed militarized males,
through the empty hands of warm waiting women
To—
hawkwise—
spiral up on the currents of my breath against your pale neck,
your cheek,
your *******
Through, in, and out—
Our breathing sylvan heat.
To lose itself awhile in the cirrus—
or fall down somewhere,
to drown within kudzu-choked deep.
Somewhere,
out in the vast dark,
in that nothing-nowhere-universe,
her kitchen light is on.
Feb 7, 2025
Feb 7, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
Sky.
Mist pigments scrape.
Tattered remnants of dappled clouds.
Chrome yellow.
Translucent saffron.
Then ochre,
to umber,
to gloom.
Vision smudges into sound into touch.
Cricket rhythm—
Mind intuits the quiescence
at the center.
Order / Hazard.
Direct transfer:
nothingness into shuddering flesh
against the blast of sunrise.
Her.
Deer track wet.
Her rip tides.
Slake my thick old predation thirst.
But—
I am alone.
Like water vapor,
suspended in the empty medium.
A mirage.
Dining with ******
with lepers,
with fever-eyed puppets,
with whatever lingers
between the edges of sleep.
The brain settles for the image,
stored away somewhere in the synaptic catacombs.
Pulling up her scintillating portrait pleases it no end.
A self-perpetuating mechanism—
fragments clasp and cling together,
peeling away.
Drinking my fill of blood and saltwater
deep in the caverns of solitude.
The hollow-no-body devil god man
hovers between synaptic gaps,
languishing
among sharp fragments of thought,
hoping to string a few together,
to escape through a lone slit of starlight.
Exalt, suffer, howl—
scalping the loneliness
of the clotted, humid tropics.
Come back.
Hello.
Come in.
Are you receiving?
Let me know if this message makes it.
If it cuts through the concertina wire,
through the melting dusk,
through the dumb, hungry-eyed militarized males,
through the empty hands of warm waiting women
To—
hawkwise—
spiral up on the currents of my breath against your pale neck,
your cheek,
your *******
Through, in, and out—
Our breathing sylvan heat.
To lose itself awhile in the cirrus—
or fall down somewhere,
to drown within kudzu-choked deep.
Somewhere,
out in the vast dark,
in that nothing-nowhere-universe,
her kitchen light is on.