Across a line that disintegrates even as it merges with the page. A habitude: une étreinte de désintégration, une bête, un romance. I am living here, it bleeds into my sense, traduit des monstres: this is what I am, a dirty, sauntering acceptance. An arrogance that lives, a tongue pressing against an incisor.
Two people holding each other in the dark. He rests his lips on the back of her neck, in a warm intersection. In that kiss is the warmth of two bodies, an occurrence coalescing at points beyond that which is discernible. A mutual darkness, for contentment is always coloured black.
Not pleased with this duelling improv. Let both halves die from senseless, inarticulate wounds.
There are the points of the compass; burrs, attached brutally in the fabric of my clothes, but digging deeper, beneath the skin, into beyond the shadow(s) of undiscovered alleyways, village squares (squares, cutting them out--certain memories, town wells, deep memories, shadows beneath the skin, splashed with water). The shadow around the mountain, the shadow in the mountain: we all voice something, and it is a something. It does not want a name--slashes hard at that brutality disguised as a charity. But a voice wonders if it may be time to embrace a something. There is the sound of a bell ringing, but not one of faith or fidelity, there is no bell, only a bell ringing, just like there is no place, only a place being. It may be time to embrace a something, to circle in without enclosing, killing finally the last vestiges of poetry (that strangling), and instead dancing along side song that sings like singing.