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Zywa 13h
He eats well, just look,

my phalanx fits easily --

in his navel hole.
Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1-6 "Many-headed monsters"

Collection "Low gear [2]"
In the mirror's gaze, a fractured self unfolds,
A prismatic dance, where identity molds.
Lost in the reflection, a journey concealed,
Identity entangled, a narrative revealed.

Each facet of me, like shards dispersed,
In the looking glass, a soul immersed.
A pretty stranger, unfamiliar grace,
Yet no connection, a separate space.

Contours traced, shadows cast,
In the looking glass, echoes of the past.
A dance of forms, a silent debate,
Identity's struggle, shadows dictate.

Reflections lag, in a subtle delay,
A disconnection, a mind's disarray.
The mirror's truth, a puzzle unsolved,
In self-perception, enigmas involved.

Yearning whispers echo through the glass,
To seize the heart that slips so fast.
Dissociation's dance, a silent plea,
To unravel the riddles, set the true self free.
irinia Nov 24
the unbearable or the body as fiction
cold minds in cold hands and so we have
the remake of the fake
the power of looking and not seeing each other
tears are silent so silent are some words
poisonous smiles and innocence inbetween
"the unbearable lightness of being" a remix
time holds us in its merciful circles
the rest is a mystery, why I love you
irinia Nov 24
the light is raging, colours are hiding
when we hide our hearts full of dusk
we are mercenaries of ensoulment
listening to this manic-depressive couple,
power and helplessness, makes one wanna scream:
darkness is vulnerable too
clockwise the mind in action flows looking for its anti-time,
our actions can stand as tall us
anticlockwise is a flow into the trance of the unknown
into foreign bodies full of the tension of keeping the light
apart from day

Magritte is dreaming his hat, Freud his pipe
The Empire of Light perhaps
Ceci est une pipe, a vital voyeurism, the pleasure of stirring up
so many levels to listen for their hidden symbols
we are antiparticles for each other, when we collide reality starts screaming for each soul to witness
but a homeless pain possesses our dreams
unable to recognize the ******* of caring

too tired for rage, I am only wondering
where to find the necessary love for this fiery world
I ask the trees, the birds, the mind of the wind,
I'll pray for them to teach me their grace
irinia Nov 17
I carry this huge body inside me
of beings unknown
to themselves
they look at the walls
and don't tear them down
they murmur a refrain
the self-hypnosis of life.

we live the best we can
in these lands
we seek each other out
and not find each other
only sometimes,
to our surprise.
we live in this body
of tears and fear.

I was little, very small,
it must be said.
I envied the flight of birds,
I crushed the flowers
with such a tenderness,
I had a feeling that poetry alone
had not pulled the bridge
from the shore of trust
Jellyfish Nov 15
Everything is connected,
I feel like a volcano that has been dormant
but want to release all of my tension.
I want to show you my emotions;

So you can see I'm not a doormat,
I just keep my feelings below the surface,
It's resulted in my body doing the same
Which is why I'm in constant pain.

My trauma has created tunnels of magma,
I can't tell where they end or begin
It's frightening and leaves me upset,
There's no one I can share this with.

I hope for one day to lay out my feelings,
Let everything flow;
Like tears, they'll roll out of me
Covering everyone I've allowed to see

Then will come the tricky thing,
to never bottle anything again.
I don't want to reap havoc on them,
I want to stay empty and peaceful

To know where I end and begin,
It would solve something, wouldn't it?
But I feel like a volcano.
Physically and within.
The mind and body are connected.
Zywa Nov 11
Beware, your body

is a prey for the devil --

He makes you hungry.
Novel "Ierse nachten" (1942, "Irish Nights", Simon Vestdijk), chapter 4-4, Letters to Saint Patrick (AD 1859)

Collection "Inmost [2]"
Zack Ripley Nov 7
My clothes
My body
My identity
These are not reflections of me
They're extensions of me
leeaaun Nov 5
My body was there, but not the soul within,
I felt something strange, a battle to begin.
Unfamiliar feelings, emotions untamed,
Lost in a world where I couldn't be named.

I moved and spoke, but the words felt astray,
As if I were dancing to a tune I couldn't play.
My body, a vessel, devoid of the core,
A silent, empty vessel, craving something more.

In the silence of that moment, I yearned to be whole,
To reunite with my soul, to fill the gaping hole.
For I knew in that instance, what was truly amiss,
My body was present, but my soul was in abyss.
Zywa Nov 3
There's a strange hand with

pointing fingers on my thigh --

and it excites me.
Painting "The Loneliness of Skin" (1983, Marlene Dumas)

Collection "Eyes lips chest and belly"
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