dAdA scrambled: too
late this night.
No you to
superglue the bits together
so, destined to
drift aimless,
frameless,
thru’ the remaining
years
contemplating
razorblades and
pills
but
undecided & too
scared.
An emotionless voice
in my head
plays in an endless
loop:
Why kill time when
you can kill yourself?
who you are fucking
tonight,
this night,
as the bed beckons:
empty and
unforgiving...
If there was
someone, anyone:
doesn’t matter
who...
Just someone to
hold my hand,
stroke my fingers
till I fall asleep
till the blankness
swoops down
and devours me/
till I am deVOID
of all these X-S
emotions.
Meantime,
Kurt Schwitters is
building
a random construct
in my small
intestine:
not that I am exactly
hurting,
not that I am
missing you...
not even the bitter
musk scent
from the crook of
yr neck...
or the soft
contours of yr belly...
or the wry twist of
yr smile...
or the ink stains
on yr fingers...
or the wistful look
in yr left eye
when you waxed
euphorically,
full of
bitter-sweet one-days.
No, I never loved
yr idiosyncrasies,
I never swooned
with lust
to the lyre-song
of yr own peculiar
idiolect.
This is false memory:
out to destroy the
delicate balance
of my
being-here-now-ness.
Some nights
the loneliness
bites
chunks out of my
brain.
Here & now,
I have not sunk that
low.
I am mindful of my
breath,
if bereft
of metta.
I breathe into my
hara
and the illusion of
tranquillity
is made manifest:
black and dense as
syrup.
The emergency exit
sign glows,
liquid crystal
green
and so seductive.
Remember,
even the Buddha
tried to waste
himself once.
He said:
paradise is for
humming birds and fools.
Counting the
breaths,
the minutes, the
hours, the days:
I perceive myself
to be
beyond redemption.
No insipid Christ
could carry me.
I am a slut to my
expectations:
will spread my legs
For any worn out
old promise.
One, two, three,
four, five:
once you caught a
fish alive.
Six, seven, eight,
nine, ten:
then you let it go
again.
Not waving, but
drowning:
a fish-hook thru’
my cheek,
just under my right
eye
the samhain moon
burning thru’ the
windows
into the dull
kernel of me.
La bella luna
pregnant and
laughing:
she who oversaw
our first velvet
velcro fuck -
galaxies bursting
out of your eyes,
filling my dull
room
with wondrous
incandescence.
Where are you this
night?
Are you
extinguished
like some overburnt
candle?
Does yr beautiful
head nestle
into yr lover’s soft
belly?
Do the pair of you
smile in your sleep,
like cats that have
had too much cream?
There are three
nightlights
guttering in my
window
to keep the witches
at bay.
I stand in
tadasana,
trying to find my
balance:
I’m a tree
blown in random
winds.
I breathe slow and deep into my hara:
still counting,
but the moon hardly moves
stirring a longing
in my belly.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's
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