Blooded scream, clawing cracks and crushing breath,
choking words before they are born, borne leaden in situ.
Words slip serpentine, intangible and infinite.
I pull at them wildly, struggling to nail down
their swimming, fleshy fragility,
faltering at communicating anything truly true at all.
I dismantle the deconstruction, deconstruct the dismantling
and fall backwards inside myself
and out the back of the universe.
I cannot hold myself together here.
I am not I, cannot shines futilely on the existence of limits,
hold the incorrect dominance of the physical,
myself is not a self,together is apart,
here is everywhere and nowhere and all, and gasping.
Scratching blindly at scraps of meaning,
it comes apart in the space in-between.
Everywhere is everything, everything is nothing,
and nothing blankets me with its luscious and lovely embrace.
Wrap around the shimmering pieces,
on top, underneath, within, without distinction,
and breathe into the pulsing fabric of the grand stage.
The props are the players,
the players the stage,
the theatre and the script set aflame.
Wisping tendrils disperse unto themselves,
and everything exhales.
I find it hard to even comprehend myself,
to find coherence in my narrative,
to believe much at all consistent with my characterisation.
The sparkling notes tickle me,
the swirling rhythm triggers twitches and groans
and I’m moving, puppeted to action by the unseen melodic artist.
Give in to the momentum, let it in and let it go
and quite suddenly the brightness shrieks into focus.
I dance frantically, desperately next to the flames,
familiar shadows swirl and condense into familiar forms.
You are here, and Sherlock and Tesla and Euler
and Russell and Jung,
and I bleed numbers and words from every pore
as the lights’ pressure pulsates and levels me.
Flat on my back, I feel the sharp and soft sand
with my soles, blistering.
The burning emptiness of the desert shimmers and cracks,
and I turn, falling.
The trees burst from within me,
scatter and scurry away to twist skyward and grand.
Branches creak and cry out to the wind,
leaves abandon their roots for flight
and I’m shrunk and scooped into their vinyled ridge.
Weightless and weary, I surrender to the slide,
let the stack cascade take me where it wills.
There is a tense and coiled beauty in the unknowable,
and I let it spindle untamed in my chest cavity.
At some point I am completely convinced
my soul hitched a ride out of my eyes,
silently in pieces, on the backs of my tears.
I clunk around the big old manor in my mind,
hauntingly, bleakly abandoned.
Possessions sit sadly, a stolen scream unmoving.
They are not mine,
I know this as I know anything,
yet here they are, perched achingly askew.
Untouchable, lost lustred under prickly, slippery dust,
I affect not one wisp as I float trudgingly between rooms.
Doorways grow and shrink and shirk transitional responsibility
as they fight to stub out escape.
Backwards is forwards,
and the four wards of the corners
hold me here now, bound.
I melt into the floor,
seep through the boards
and drip into