He

To that world he took me,

Where endless chasms rose into hills,

And the voices of the birds traversed from within my feet

Into the waves that vibrated from my sole.

To that world he took me,

Where water glittered in the shadows of light,

And the azure of the skies faded across my fingers,

Into the veins that sprang from my wrists.

To that world he took me,

Where daffodils absorbed their own scent,

And the bees carried nature’s pollen,

Into the breath that fertilized my mind.

To that world he took me,

Where my heart slumbered upon my shoulder,

And the whips of his love eased beyond my arms,

Into the lips, that were mine no more.

Paper

The paper bends on itself, fluttering in the wind.

What control does it have on what you print?

What control does it have on its colour and size,

On the honesty of your words or the art of lies?

And yet it preserves in its fibres your scent,

You forgot what you meant, but behold,

It bent.

Fly

She plucked ‘em off,

Feather by feather,

They had made her soar,

But now she knew better.

She doesn’t need the skies,

When she can own the lands,

She doesn’t need ‘em wings,

She got ‘em in her hands..

That's precisely my point

And then I realized just how small a point really is. I mean, think about it. It is supposed to occupy a vanishingly small space. It is supposed to exist, but that’s as far as it can go.  You and I see it, so it’s most definitely there, but we shouldn’t be able to perceive it. It isn’t tangible. If I were to lay my finger on it, it would disappear into the contours of my skin after which I might never be able to distinguish it from all the other points that build me. So, in a way, it’s this mysterious, unintelligible quest. It exists, but in passing. It is time itself. And if you try to capture it, it just floats away. Into nothingness. Or points of nothingness.

Draw a line segment,

Draw a shorter line segment vertically above it,

Draw an even shorter one above that,

Then shorter, shorter, shorter,

Shortest.

Draw a point.

Sharpen the pencil and draw a finer point.

Then finer, finer, finer.

Finest.

Draw Nothing.

The Five-petaled Flower

The five-petaled flower

Just swayed in the wind

And appeared as a blur

Of a lonesome stem.

The five-petaled flower

Then shed all its petals

Yet when it swayed

It appeared but the same.

Behead

The words that I bequeath are not yours to quote,

Those words belong to me, they are what I wrote.

Why do you encroach upon my thoughts

And voice the wisdom I sought?

You’re my guise, it is I you fucking feign.

You’re just the tongue, dear,

That calls me the Brain.

Naked

My hands are the link from my mind to reality,

They are but the viands of my sexuality.

They perpetuate my thoughts,

And unravel my lots,

To expose my soul to body, and finality.