poetry and other writings

For about a month I would wake up and nearly immediately write for 10 minutes. Here are two sessions of this stream-of-conscious practice.

20.04.20 

Opposite of me sits her form, gooey and translucent in its despicable demeanor. She reeks of disdain, but it is something I’m able to quite easily ignore. I am more focused on the thing in the corner. 

The thing in the corner is not much of a thing at all, but a soft billowing mass of feeling that I had forgotten about. It emanates a certain warmth that I cannot place. A warmth that I can’t quite feel or comprehend. But it is there. And it floats, nearly judgingly -- but in a loving manner, of course. 

She gets up, the orifices of her face sliding out of position. A tiny gasp escapes her mouth. I am forced to remove my attention from The Thing and look in her direction. There is a certain vibration in the  air, as I feel my limbs separate. It feels as if I am being pulled in two different directions. Toward The Thing and her. 

The Thing also moves. Or did It? It seems as if It was there, then It was there again but different. As if It had left, and changed Its clothes and came back without my notice. But The Thing did not change Its clothes. It doesn’t wear any clothes. It is just there.

She, on the other hand, moves as we all do: hesitantly yet aggressively, as if she desperately needs something but she doesn't know what. Her skin sticks to her seat as she moves toward me. The flesh shivers and oozes around her bones. I stare into her eye sockets, the structure of my being separating into two. There is a deep humming in the air, coming from within her hollow chest. Or is it my humming? I am not sure. 

I stand separated, as a child and a carcass between The Thing and her. This has been my end. 

​

4..20 

I sit in an empty shadow and listen to the birds. By opening up my chest, I can let them flutter in and rest their tired wings, perched on the branches of my rib cage. I inhale slowly and they ruffle their feathers. My breaths are the breeze; they are not inclined to fly.

If I were to lay down the birds might leave, or fall prey to the snakes slithering through the grass. These serpents are glossy and cold eyed, and twist their slender bodies around my bones. They squeeze tight, causing fractures and splinters which I don’t feel. I am only aware of the remnants of their destruction when I try to stand, and realize I can no longer carry my own weight. 

A rabbit hops forward, long after the snakes have left, after the consuming moss and grass has already degraded my structure. The rabbit only sniffs, its whiskers quivering, then leaves. 

I am left alone to dissolve into the earth.