Eye & Answering wallpaper
[ poetry - may 05 ]
The ice is melting and so are the words.
The water is evaporating and so am I.
The air is solidifying and so are the words.
When I cracklesinged my eyelashes with a match,
I broke a bone and wished them to grow.
Hairs grew: shiny, thick and curved,
arcing backwards like a touched body.
The stems extended still, long,
pushing through themselves into a sweeping curtain
I pinned behind my ear with a dried rose,
so in my field of vision I could see the past clearly.
My lashes are sprouting shoots and strange buds:
little welts upon their unblinking branches.
I wear a patch and weave young boughs
into my head, plaiting new leaf with tangled hair.
The eyetree yields apples.
Eating bread and Stilton,
I tightroped along a vein of mould.
It led me to a dream
where the moonpail needed emptying
in sky clotted with purple marbles and fur;
nothing remained of those who lived in monotony.
I found a box of engraved fossils and toffee.
I rippled when I moved, like a soundwave.
I pluck the weights and stay indoors
to make good things with my fruit.
I baked an apple charlotte with pastry
I cut myself. You would come to the house of eyes
and I fed you because I wanted you
to eat my apples, eat the gifts of my eyes, eat me.
Only then would you see the truth.
Nobody comes to the house anymore.
Nobody eats my apples, apples
that come from no season, from no planted tree.
I cannot move for the burden of the apples:
nobody unloads the truths anymore
Whispers of ripening, decaying apples
frighten me; their low song is too much to contain
for one being. My eyelid has stretched far now,
reaching my knee in a skirt of skin membrane.
Weeping sand, I climb inside the thin cloak of my eyeskin
like a pip, waiting in the eye-hammock darkness
for the apples to stop murmuring Braille truths,
waiting for the twigs and trunks to entomb me with apple arms.
”Poetically man dwells” - Hölderlin
It takes cool faith to cultivate obliviousness.
Aware of warmth, thoughtless flowers rotate
and unfold to face up into a sun they cannot see.
I had a telepathic dream. I told you about it once.
It is the butter and the fire and the melting.
It is the inspiration and the breath and the word.
It is the sawdust and the sieve and the air.
I haven't even opened my presence yet.
It takes air to cultivate telepathy.
A dream they have not, and cannot see, unfolds my presence.
It is the sunbutter faced. Faithless thought is melted sawdust.
Inspiration rotates and is the breath of awareness.
Oblivious too, once I even opened up the fire.
It had a cool warmth about it,
and into it I sieved the flowers.
And and and and and I told you the the the the the word.