From Dreamless Green to a Tapestry of Bone-White Dreams

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 appeal is 

now primary to all. 

Systems of attraction 

are broken for some—they resent. 

Though, 

I medicate a fortunate body, so, it is needless, 

and this assertion is proof of possession.


the paradox of beauty.


Yet I cannot help but wonder

how I’ve been contrived as such:

unfree, submerged, superfluous. 

He may not comply but I believe

I can find a place in the upper rung

of tragedies; and when defied, he 

joins the spectral absence 

brimming with friends 

that accuse me of the same. 

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