Friday, May 25, 2012

the cassandra by ness bloo

i suffer of passion.
as if i must slowly move like winter. white
going quiet, expressions; mornings so fragile, they rupture
me. i exist in you, in everywhere
and. .. . .

... my hand mimics yours.
a disciple for an hour.long angel
to the delirium               where
there are no angels. i am scared of everything.
and yet, it's not the cold that i fear or the hunger
of my growl, although i am a beggar at your threshold,
it's just that my fingers feel

tear myself so easily, unpoemed.
to live to love you to lose me.
your eyes tucked in the dark of my belly.
i wonder at the window of the sea and if it, like we,
                         will remain foaming. 

in the flesh.roamed truth, i protect myself.
from the envious girls in corners.
i see them wearing summer's heat.
offering something more than 
handfuls; they siphon my skin's scent.
it must smell like you by now,. 

there has been much impatience in my body.
it rages on the end of a stick. 

and here i am in the birdsong,
demanding silence. my mind makes believe, 
like i know, the sounds must be of high lovers
in trees, flying and awaying from their tiny skeletons
because they must be, must be. ..
... ..sparrows that denied themselves
their own trembling souls, to slide only
undrunk, untasted, over a vulturing death,
half.stretched over half.light, half the way to eden. 

i breathe on the pillow
                                 words not yet here
i breathe on the pillow        words that could be hers 

i was the one who was dead in the waiting
water, was the one that imprinted air with my

i trace the places you've traveled and i feel
their gravity. am i a ghost that can be smeared across
the bathroom mirror? where i watch you watch
me and what is it that makes me unlook pretty.. ... 
these things go graveling in me, you see
these insecurities tie me, to your eyes 

she whispers:::
something about moaning beasts
with great morning eyes and curves i cannot manage.
i try
i try

i make myself a queen in a kingdom's bed;
lily to sheets, crusader to embraces, limping to martyrdom,
as if it were only a matter to gather the right flowers.
would that make me
                            the way you cannot cry?
would that make me forever?
if i died again, could i be. 

must not exist such a thing. 

i know you
are not disturbed by a woman's smell,
and you might very well love small fears;
but there are things.. ...
                                i want to hysteria
about how the seasons will change into murderers
which makes no sense, i am sure.
soon, the girl will come to a burning point
and i am afraid you will watch her burn. 

you will survive the massacre and adore the ash.
you will manifestly turn black from the beating of eyelids. 

slanted body,
as if a kiss uncrossed
and undescribable 

so soft it will destroy us.
and it isn't as if we haven't been this close.
i just need you closer,
nearer to, so you can hear, 

the maddening

this must be the reason
women moan, scrape, and arch;
we let someone speak through us. 

               possession is such as.

have you heard me
making myself small enough.
wild enough, and yet i still will
scry at you to see if i am
down to your bones
                                                    i fear you
             turning away. 

i will still find you standing
alone and surrounded                     and those girls in corners
searching for smoke                       so quiet in the disarray 
your fingers wide open in the wind                                                     and i will crush the world
i will shatter with proof.
i will go blind with ablution.
i will rush to the end.    

             writing only
of a voice, of shimmers, of loves,
of a million syllables that start
to speak but stop
afraid of losing, but writing
that i counted,
barely moving my lips,
every time you might have said me
           without even knowing it; 

i must've given
more than birth
to this.               

     that is the reason for the screaming.

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