I'm still on the brink of it
the moment I perpetually live
again and again
a repetitive dream
where I feel my way
through the buttons to flesh
cupping my hands
around it
the tremble of it as ruthless in me
as an earthquake
I live in constant state of anticipation
of longing, of wishing for it
when I know I can't have it,
feeling flesh I have
not felt in years ,
shaping it the way a sculptor
might from a bit of moist clay
making it this then
that
flat at first then
long and thin and potent
reshaping it again and again
from a brief memory of when
it once was real
I live with the echo
of old texts
like the voices of crazy people hear
telling me to do
things I ought not to do
even in private, even in the dark
still I do them, feeling what I imagine I feel
and the feel of real flesh
that happens to be mine
One vision, one touch
inspiring me even
when
it's not real I
am still an interrupting
volcano
No comments:
Post a Comment