What can I do now, telling?
What is the truth of the unkind?
How has the ground shifted from my feet
to my pulse? I'm high on this anxious curve-
the curve of my third breast, intuitive for lovers.
The curve of my taint, and the taint of my skeleton.
When she's all I have left I will carve into her skull.
And as it burns to ash I will follow her in the wind and
find different seas to put her in and feel different touches
as to who has been the cause this time. Go to a place unseen.
There is one beauty in being lonely, untraveled.
In that you may still get to go for the first time and
see and feel and touch for the first time, and take all
the old growth lingering there for the first time and be
shaped by it, finally, by all the stories of your expectations
and having your colour change and getting history from the
beverages of destination and taking in the new nectar and
being like a child, authentically.
When I was a child I wanted to grow up
as quickly as was possible and I wanted to
feel what genitalia felt like inside and out and
I wanted to know the bottom of the bottle and
every place that wasn't home inside.
And now I realize I miss my child.
The distance is like death.
A timely sorrow.
Keeping your doors closed, but unlocked.
And with this currency of Time
at the bedside,
Dreamer,
What's is like to be a child now?
