contemplation on time

My body complies too much with sabotage. As blame is thrown, I watch it return with a force I capture in chemical absorption. He said that the body is all we have, he said that ignoring the body is why some philosophers can never write poetry like mine. He has said too much.  11 july 2024 In recent dreams I see  participants of the past constructed in yarn be  unlaced and sewn back— all my friends from times  that don't belong to me drifting in absurdity.  And when I come to, mornings  acquaint me with a child: splitting image of my mother.  Day becomes the hem of a dream collecting finer particle memories; exhaling not love or adoration—what I thought I’d miss,  but clarity of conversation; an evasive, perturbable ache in my chest.  While I narrate these visions  of sleep to him, record betrays that I long and yearn;  an off-putting nostalgia threatens me through dreams.  Metaphors of the body do  not seem so marvellous to me;  history obviates idealism, to  begin with, and so app

i begin with so much force to get to you but only imagine a dark lack of atmosphere.  then i see your arms extended i see your coffee-soaked skin onto which i stick my tongue and drink you. when they appear i linger in a waltz and i'm certain that you break light like morning into me. vastness opens so brightly ahead and reflects back without difference or separation. a hesitation of skin is removed, i slip off sense and find with ease the objects of your childhood mind's anxious coagulations, drifting towards me as if all along. we make contact like two coasts merged by ceaseless growth; a union that swallows the sea, a point of boundlessness in my space from which we began and poured back into. if we meet again and my eyes fade off yours i won't be deterred  i will simply press up against your mind  and impose a migraine containing my amber-scented hair.