i.
i’m tired. tired and sick and scared of a shopping list of futures. i wish i could wrap a pillow around my head - not just to scream like a feral animal, but also so the carillon bells behind my eyes are at least a little dampened. i am constantly fitting a square into a wooden circle. it does not fit. i try upside down. it does not fit. i hold my breath and swallow. it does not fit.
this is the diapason problem. it echoes around the main ideas but infects them; it bites with fangs and hates to leave lipstick smudges. it’s cold. i want to be cauterised. it’s easier than waking up in the morning to feel the ripples of my own sleep bounce back from the edges like a squash ball on a brick wall.
‘compared to the medieval princes we live in absolute luxury.’
compared to the future, this is a temple with no god.
ii.
fangs and smudges are cold;
this is the shopping list of futures.
all easier than waking like a feral animal
only to feel the sleep bounce back
from bells behind my eyes. the squash
ball on brick is a little dampened.
to medieval princes we are a square
in a wooden circle. compared to the temple
with no god, i hold my breath.
this is the echo. it infects. bites.
hates to leave lipstick. cauterises.
i scream in the afternoon so the
carillon ripples of my own skin are
(at least a little)
a constantly forced wall.
compare the circle to us. we are
the diapason problem in the main canyon.
it does not fit.
it does not fit.