Today in bad ideas.
Vomit on the train platform, there and back. Orange splotches on a hospital mask. Winter light, winter light. Waiting for a moment to fall on you. Emotional grammar of the traumnovelle. Don’t flinch. Do your best. As two fighters with a dangerous natural curiosity, I feel we may have much in common. I fear we may have much in common. There and back, winter light.
Hands in fists, I watch horror movies and then I lucid dream. I panic. I won’t meet my eyes in the mirror. Could I ever hold my own gaze with real revelation, as though I’d just caught it one-handed from a great height? Could I do that without feeling unlucky to have been standing where I stood? Get me a horse whose hide I can skin and tan.
I have to believe in you because the blood stains of the massacre were visible from space. Sticky red pools in the rows of wheat. Purpling flesh in wavy heat, plums split on the ground. I have to believe because a child has died, is dying, will die. I have to believe because we have overextended empire and now reap only the desert beyond. That horse I killed could have kissed my teary eyes over the dunes, but I never possessed foresight, did I? So I travel the sands alone, grains of scarlet caught in my cloven hooves. But wretched as I am I still believe that you are one of my own, and I, one of yours. In this interregnum of vomit and light, of comets and light, I must believe that I cannot leave this dream. Faith, rolling fruit in the grass. Roots, hacked off bluntly, trenches bored into apricot-blue ice, disproportionate. Female Fantasies, Volume 1.
Leave a Reply