Alphabet

And there is only this flesh
this sigh of skin space of sensation
there is only all of this
that all
and Derrida's weight of text for us to cognize with

we to wrestle our feathered images in finite ink
we to push pull beauty into space
we to sigh scream and ever bear this palette of colour
this equation tragedy our beauty

we to and ever (glug glug)
there is only everything..
and sign
our only vantage

**


Murmur.


I am too young for this world
too small and slow to straddle my language
direct and disease it toward the murmuring of silences:
I must grow in this blinding flux of sensations and vision with
bated heart
and wait for the thunder to slip into tongue

I must apply my blood as faint ears
and clumsy pry open eyes
with my odd
rhythms of accent
until I may rise over my ink
and thrust new days onto page

I must wait and cry and bear the silent beauty

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