I really appreciate everyone who’s been reading me and commenting in this new cycle. I certainly don’t write the way I used to, and I don’t want to, even if I do cherish some of my old poems. It still means a lot to me when someone cares enough to read, especially those that return despite the change.
Both cited lines are from Kafka’s Blue Octavo Notebooks.
What do you think of, when you can’t sleep?
VERSE FOR MOBILE
616 -(erotism) (1) When I can’t sleep, I think of Iceland. The world is made there, the felt fingers that encage me are made there, the evenings’ fiery spit swells up the earth and urgent silence grasps the domain as only a dominator could. You are much older than me, now. Many whom I’ve loved I picture going down the Giant’s Causeway, into that ebbing bed I cherished coldly. You are much older than me, I hold the warm back of your hand to my face, feel I too am cold fire bulging underneath my dreams notice how there’s barely any light listen to the brutal absence I’ve learnt to replicate. (2) When you pass away, I will still be in my waking years. You simper at my metal water bottle, I can kill someone with it, you joke. “We hold the world fast and complain that it is holding us.” I don’t try hard enough. I will one day leave my body to a blood-rose. My thoughts will trail the swallows into some imagined grove, and the fevers which are supplied to us will wane, percolate through the gravel of a dour coast our feet shall never touch. Your cat greets me. Red fur polishing my shins — she doesn’t like to be petted. Her name is Kafka, it suits in its own unsuitability. “In a certain sense you deny the existence of this world.” There’s warm ash in our evenings. It smells like camomile. I fear and I welcome your winters, because they are my winters too. That is where the world is denied — fear, fear, to welcome it, to hold onto it, to spend oneself in it… (3) You ask what I’m reading, I say Artaud. The only man who never went mad. Our bodies some of us exist in hunger some of us exist in ache. I am — like you say — the tragedy of every moment. Slowly we give way to erosion. Our pathetic play rehearsing the wounds of those immune rehearsing the screams of those silenced rehearsing the fate of those impressed Kafka’s hungry once again, it can’t be me, I wonder if she thinks of Iceland too. I hold the warm back of your hand to my face. You hold the world fast and complain that it holds you.