ALL CORNERS MADE TO BE LEANED
a house in a house
guarded against the risk of misfitting the body
an awl you feel at ease with from time – to the same degree it’s salving you
a whole journey took stage, rigidly enforced one might say
it might have ended in tragedy, classic catharsis
instead here a dwell in negative definiteness
just like soaking horse lips insatiably thirsty for a creek
– soft and humble, yet vast.
why is you house-shaped – is it you are providing a home?
‘what is left of home than an utter sense of bleakness, really?’
– your solitude venting,
it’s still not able to traverse, still hung up on perfect edges
though they long since watered down into serpentines.
a practice of bottoming from the top, who’s dissent as crucial as its soft-edge
don’t hesitate to linger
in what’s always slipping and twitching and crouching from your grip
sit down on the silkish and watery –
just to learn that from this perspective, the necessity of w-questions has dissolved
but still the i-question – again:
is you already home?
is a house shape enough?
my dear –
we’re here harvesting, picking the buttons prepared to intertwine two sides of the same coin
you and the arrows that have drawn you
slung further to built more home-shaped-hearts.
your thoughts endure a frame less frail
where all corners are made to be leaned
all the in-betweens sowed to sojourn
internal spaces all set up to make you both – fugitive and furniture-hermit.
sirens strike up an eerie sound, they echo back from our walls like violins.
now a time to leave your beloved verge
but letting what’s still composing with you
stick on your back like bubblegum.
no clockwork in becoming,
just making yourself house-shaped, home-shaped.
a let-go to serenity, my dear
since you’ve been weaponized with a warm shoulder.
while spiraling down dainty branches of cohesion
while now prepared to face your reflection in you,
reminiscence is built with oneself
its occurrence in every water, every silk, everything specular or written
– finally housebroken.
frankly, there’s been no anxiety more draining
it has even left purple traces on coping-relics – the paperpillar in front of you.
still, a thing as worthy as the no – thing
there is no matter if you just pretend to be wooden,
if you pretend to be fabric while merely being plastic
it’s all part of the you –
however wretched taste it has left in your mouth
you’ve never got to savor a taste more moreish.