manchaliaina

What benevolence resides in you, I cannot say; and how I hold you clear and warm against high tide on a rocky beach - it's like glass, a picture windown on a rainy night where you say, "It's really pouring outside." It's still cold; but irrelevant too because you took me home and though I came back, I can say I have seen it - like a sea monster in the surf, of the Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, it's palpable - a miracle; a step closer to magic and the breaking of that last barrier before the world turns.

1. I don't know what's happening. These days the night insists on keeping me bright past the hours of reason and long into the dark sharp time delineated by walls and where the lamp does not swell to. Someone is speaking and I'm afraid it might be someone inside me, quite separate, quite distinct from who I already know to live here. Lines in the mirror, on the shadow are sharper than they were once and maybe even beautiful, but certainly familiarity breeds familiarity and I like it better than beauty. Maybe it's this new body I'm sucking into, sucking and sculpting sucking and refusing out breath - maybe it's malnutriti

It doesn't matter a million tongues you wrap around the cosmos as you pass it by, it's what's in the storm of your eyes that'll really move them; and it doesn't matter the miles that you run on the wheel, it's what you said when you fell heel over heel down the toll road to every beautiful land mine; thing is, babe, you're stuck in time and it's not art that'll break your back, it's how you're splayed across the rest of the track, waiting for the steam train to come revelation you home. There's death in it and turning to stone.