notapoem

phases, sundholmdesign


we are dancing machines. made perfectly for that. engineered so that i can gather your bare feet and ankles in my hands like water and lay them in my lap.

my heart rate can double in 8 seconds. in 30 i can grow wings and fly. i found a dream hidden in a book in the library. also, during a right-turn at midnight, under a yellow streetlight someone maybe had dropped it.

we are falling machines. collapsing from what? to what!. ears pricked for epiphanies, every hair i lose is another monday's worth of life. i'm swapping my body for time. (we are dreaming machines. (eyeslids soo beautiful when we sleep

piano keys feel like skin, and i have lonely fingertips. they are cold, like dipping my fingers in water, or falling into a mirror. what side of what!(?) did i wake up on?- dear You, yes, you there with the brown eyes, my goodness you are a miracle. here the day is constructed with bones. clean. geometric. we are floral-machines, i dream in tulip petal and geranium red. i dream in the kink of the stem.

we are machines that make love. produce it. daily discover it and invent it, rework it relive it, condem it, pardon it, fall into it, slide out of it, kiss the stars of it, hold the hair of it, rub our cheek against the cheek of it and pant our hot breath into its mouth in regular thrusts. we are machines that mine it and save it. dip our memories in it. fade colours and dim songs into it. kiss shoulders and hold the waists of it. scar our hearts for it, slam our heads into midnight walls for it. deliver letters demanding it. obsess with it and snort the powder of what we're left with of it.

time is a box. space another. i can determine everything in vector coordinates at last. i am quantised. (remember when we were the faintest idea inside someone's ear?, (remember when someone first found your name, sitting in a closet or nametag or over a first date i'm sorry but if it's a girl it must be Juliet. Ella. Sophia.

there are no more numbers to count our mistakes with, so i have thrown away the calenders. she has lonely eyes. her hands fidget. sssshhhhh my dear. here we are all equally regardless. if i can smile i can gasp my way out of this smalltime 2am sunday. we are hoping machines. an atomic furnace worth. (i lay on her lap and she plays with my hair before i leave).

here are my dark eyes. here my precocious hands. we are sinking machines. we are sunken cathedrals. we are fallen discoverers. we are nautical miles and light years. we are fossilized stones and precious metals. we are extinguished stars and deleted file-names. we are handwritten letters and neglected toe-nails. we are specks and hated neighbours and delicious cupcakes and bright eyes and undared-to-hope-for yearnings and oh my god we are soo much everything. we are water fights. we are deliverance machines. we are such allwonderfulloveliness.

and when i fell, out of my chest exploded daffodils and harmonicas and Aboriginal Dreamtime and the Caspian Sea.