Closing my eyes and
drifting off into the dream of myself I considered carefully my potential body, its posture, flesh and gaze.
Sister said: Your poetic self is all about expansion, and yes, I agree, but I also feel it is as much about exclusion. Exclusion of the debris that keeps my heart from reaching its tentacles into the world, to other hearts. Or is it the other way around?
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Crushed lips Colour me in every eye. Watching. With hands. Restless. Seeking. Accepting. Misunderstood. Soft Nests. With Every step Exeitment evokes. Cant conquer the tones of past rythms. Calm will find you. Through plumes douces et pierres. When the drop breaks Melts your skin. When the masses surround your foot.…
”We donate our flesh to the idea” the Sister says. This sentence keeps rummaging inside me. Making my stomage crumple together. It seems so definitely to donate our flesh, my flesh to the idea. But then I tell myself that it is not just an idea. It is a hope,…