absent photograph of your mouth
a poem written to myself
not giving up now
takes radical imagination
none of us can bear it
we keep moving, lost stars
what if what i always wanted to be
was a dead woman singing dead woman
songs sweetly into your dead mouth
till echo us all
Energy is eternal delight.
-Blake
this is a photograph of the threading of dimensions, the way
one portal spindles into a next, the stories tell us all beauty is asleep and
when we kiss we never kill one another as we do now in the new world order
called paradise, called land of the freely lit up caged devices &
underwater spamming that knows all your secret names. you will get a great body of work, they will
tell you, by excavating your traumas but what if i’m no longer interested in
personal ads or buying more nightmares to store for nuclear winters.
in the 90s they assured us we would never recover, never get this far, trained to ghost hope & not fathom dense images we couldn’t slick trade on tomorrows. the fantasy of science was untethered and now every religion has a walking dead arc –you have to pick a team for survival but there’s nothing to survive, we’re so many dreams deep, there no longer exists a kick hard enough to reach—better yet, let’s invent new inventories made of lyrics forgotten. let’s line them up next to pictures taken on our phones & call it life.
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