Song of Spring


to be lost in a voice. the movement becomes you. her words spoken smoothen lullaby in the night when i scream lonely. textures of reassurance, rocking, lulling back to rest in the void. now i lay me down to sleep. the pictures come in the night vivid, taking me in, encapsulating me. the pores of her skin. the closing of my mouth around her nipples. i fold inward. into the floating laxity of the waves. into the darkness we travel.
how alone i am here, letting go of everything, letting the gravity of the ruts speed me forward engine, fuel fuel fuel, so much noise that i hear nothing, and the faces of the world jumping into my eyes as the warmth fades, firelight wavering in the wind, smoke intaken and billowing into moving pictures that turn meaningless, empty, echoing in the silence, jackolanterns carved to charm, give me my candy, lost in a narration that cannot be heard, tongues that have passed away, directionless, pointing nowhere.
struggling to uplift. to wet the beak of. to whet. reawaken the blood to its purpose, programmed. functioning beautifully, spreading wings, preening, singing pretty songs with no distinction between notes. patterns adapt to chaos, pixellating. the stars make so much sense. the buildings in the night. windows electrified. it doesn’t matter what you believe, there is always life on the other side. let yourself die and you will see.
this voice screaming in the night, disrupting, subverting, awakening. life. rock it into yourself. coo it quiet. sing yourself comfort. believe.
this is what it is to move together alone. music voices, webbing each other, network. but where is the backdrop? the narration, the tune, the history? there is nothing. pay attention. each singular drop sphered and crystalline is the news. the form through which juice moves in between. pores, pouring. into the mouth. and tomorrow. where not have been, but where are going. processing. doesn’t it always amaze you? didn’t quite expect so much, so fast, it was just atari then, look at the sprawling industrial children now. don’t stop looking. no one expects you to see. not past the game, not through it. becoming clear. the light moving through. just forms. just words, conveyor belts, cars. understanding for what is. for what is being done. tools in your hands, creator. use the world to construct yourself. graffiti your nickname on the train.
destroyer. this voice may go unrecognized by consciousness, conscientiousness. it may be whited out, slurred, and muffled. but it is there.
is was there. and streaming through the night window it may cross your windshield, screaming into your sleep to be held, understood, and led like a child to its death in the cauldron of your heart. and so you may cradle it, you may feed it, you may kindle it into flame. you may beat it senseless, hail it in the storm of your own noise. you may put the pillow over your own head and wait for forgetting.
but a voice once heard must be dealt with.
she told me not now. i held her in my arms until we were ready to let go again. and now, i am here, voicing myself into the night. i can feel the coming of the light. i will move towards this ready
to be accepted.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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