Weekend Poetry: No God is Like a Vapour

No god is like a vapour

Stygiomedusa Gigantea

 

no  god  is  like  a  vapour           gods are   as oil   & sponge  as this

    here  are  my   droplets  :   here  are   my tendrils   &  their

 

         galactic melting           here    :  i am   a dish   of  brine

&  pink  water              watch :   i will  show  my face  to  death

 

     except   do  not watch                  i can  only   perform

         down here            here         under  a  thousand   atmospheres

 

in   dreams   i was  not   licked  into this   salt existence        down  in

    these  murky  whirlpools           not  licked  into  this almost-life

 

         in   dreams  i am shocking   everything   with   my  hot

twitching  knowledge            but i   fear corners &   small  rooms    & i

 

    can do  nothing   but   atrophy this   almost-flesh  through  the

         water          in  dreams i   am  not  naked   &  afraid         in dreams

 

i   have  been   given    hands  so  that   i  might   hold  myself

 

Octaves

When our mongrel began to leave us I

stood by the window looking out for some time. There was nothing

but the windfarm’s treelike groaning, & the terrible

vibrating mazes of grass. Nurses spoke quietly of shipwrecks.

She had expected her life to be otherwise— not so coarse, medicinal

her jaw a closed-off machine trying to cast out

her knitted breath. I began to think

of muscle memory— how at any time I could

 

wander up to the piano in the loft, breach

this routine of forgetfulness, plant

my fingers down on its clumsy hinges.

We don’t know where she’s going or how fast.

It is a struggle of light & we are washed

in the hope of it, & now she is muttering and close

to see-through. Waiting for her escape is something that falls &

falls— like the rain that splits this window, with cracks of imperfect blue.

 

A Short History of Strangulation

to begin at sweetness

to walk on the beach.

to be lost among the slanted lights of carousels.

to be washed in several kinds of sweat.

to make use of funhouse mirrors.

to wander through the galleries of your imperfection.

to learn how to experience a mirror.

to strive towards the condition of arcade machines, their luminous certainty.

to be draped in wings of rain.

to look up at the moon, foster mother.

to feel the salt wind bucking between your teeth.

to take the exit wound out, past the end of the driveway.

to balance it on your tongue.

to kneel down to bars of soap, to kiss and forgive them.

 

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