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Caitie Mar 5
if one day my skin started to rot
i'd spend the last hours of my life here.


i'd pace back and forth in this familiar
scene with all my wrong-doings on repeat


i'd rewind and rewatch the times i replied
with words i didn't mean and throwing fists i couldn't clench.


I'd reload the entire decade i spent absent
and remind all my friends that i needed them here.


i'd throw myself deeper to stress the recoil
i subjected myself to
and rerun the episodes where i spun around in circles trying to grip the reins on my affliction.


i'll never be able to reconcile the seconds. the days. the years i spent crawling inside of my body looking for a warm place to nest.
in fact i think i'm still searching.


if my skin is starting to decay, the rest of my body will soon.
but i can't stop pacing and the tapes keep playing
for me to reminisce on my remorse.
and all i can think about is how badly i want a redo.
Zywa Mar 3
Another new birth,

another programmed clotting --


of exploded cells.
Story "De surprise" ("The surprise", 1968, Belcampo)

Collection "Finethreads"
Zywa Dec 2023
These are caring days.

We eat, we work and we bath --


These are perfect days.
Film "Perfect days" (2023, direction Wim Wenders, screenplay with Takuma Takasaki)
Song "Perfect Day" (1972, Lou Reed, album "Transformer"), but without ******

Collection "Summer birds"
Arlen Feb 28
This body is not my home
The words you use for me are not my own
So, please don't presume to know me
As you see my passing by
What lies beneath the surface
Is more than what meets
Society's eye
neth jones Feb 18
a troubled little wisp of waxy death   punches from my lips
(is it the exhaust   from many thriving microorganisms ?)
there it is   a clearly visible tiny cloud formation
(is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?)
married also is its appearance  in the bathroom mirror
(confirmation that   it is no illusion)

i was quite casual about the event (thank you)
but not enough
              to stop me noting it here ;
call it   'the death weather report'
it shall be journaled further
i already feel observed
   as though by some bored student mortician
Zywa Jan 30
My body may seem

solid, but it is a cloud --


of floating atoms.
Novel "jl." ("recently" - the title also refers to Juno Linnaarts, 2016, Anjet Daanje), chapter April 28th, 1986

Collection "No wonder"
ghost man Jan 30
an accidental intimacy is committed
between the right-now me
and the me-a-few-minutes-ago
as i slip onto my body,
(made cold by the air of the room,)
the warmest shirt i have ever felt,
soft and hot with the heat of
my own body
that i had already forgotten.

two me's converge, here.
i wrap my arms around myself.

i forgive my old self for all he has done to me
yesterday
because look what he would do for me
today,
he would keep himself warm
so that one day he would be cold
so that one day i could pick this hot shirt up
and wear it.

we waltz, we dance,
until the heat calms under the fan,
and then we are just one man
and i catch myself missing him.
Her body pulls weight with ease
Ask mountains if they are displeased
Question clouds drifting in the sky
What is orbit's watchful eye?
Have spun circles too long
Dizzy as current moves us along
Communicating inexact words
Sentences sometimes are outright absurd
Kissing off-target
Inaccurate aim
An impressive meaningless game
Expressing inner thoughts strictly forbidden
Settles now
What's hidden?
Unapproachable horizon
Distant
Bright
From the past learn abuse is alright
Understand sea and it's secret depths
Neither decide
Desire to descend it's steps
For indignity she avoids at all costs
Collisions difficult tempt and accost
Start anew
Wiping slate clean
The "we" discovered that lies between
Ever so gently make change
Offered affection usually exchanged
On her own battles pain
Heart will survive because love remains
A returning circuit all burned out
Body will live
With
Without
Written 2-8-21
Jodie-Elaine Jan 6
Good morning    body
I called you in for a meeting
    because
you can’t sleep                         again
and I just wanted to tell you
        you don’t already seem to know
and no one can read your writing
you already know what you’re wearing tomorrow and you’ll pay the gallery in the morning

and    it's all fine
and you’re very much allowed to yawn     sigh    or take a
deep breath    

I know January keeps trying to go on
and on and on and on
like you’re not already over it
a few weeks ahead of yourself
like we’re not all stuck in Deja-vu
despite the fact that it’s fun to type out
soothing repetition
like a hot tea lavender oil or the last smile on the page
like a consoling yoga chant

it’s time you heard this
where are the words you’re hiding?
when you sit down and say you can’t do this again
I will tell you     I think this might be growing
it was you under the pile of clothes the whole time
holding the remote
murmuring prophetically in the corner
it was you    you see
you already said
you’re everything you know
you’re everything you need

Good morning    body
I called you in to talk to me
for us to meet each other

letters to yourself are the new shopping list

or at least
they’re calming to write when you can’t sleep.
poetry from Jan, deep in the midst of hibernation season
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