Vladimir32

There is a drop of you in my blood In my brain In my heart In my hands and feet You are in the way that I think The way I feel The things I do A bit of you lives in me Making me a little bit better With a nudge and a whisper Like a bee to a flower You help me understand You help me talk from my guts You help me love Simply because you Are And I would not be Me If you were Not So with all my voice I say Thank You, For being.

It fans in four And with each pushing breath It grows, Glittering, Each glimmering specks, Merging and conversing and dancing with its neighbour Like a tribe of glass riding the ocean Straining out end-to-end As the diving phantoms arrive; Pale oil slicks crossing, slipping past each other Wailing their sorrows back and forth To the deep that soaks them up And they’re gone. My head’s gonna crack open And all the colours are gonna come flying out, So I must write them down right now Because once they slip away, They’ll be gone for good Like eels through my fingers, Away into the sea, Parting ways One by one Until total dilution. Damn you, Eric. Why did you make it so slippery? Thank you, Eric. You have given me a rare thing for free And I must share it. The gears are starting to turn now, Winding me back down to earth. I hope to lose my gravity again someday, But until then, I will have this.

On that plain white sheet Between delicate lines of grey Lies the whole of you. Everything you are, were, could be, Waiting to be scraped free from under cover By the nib of a black Pilot. Everything you’ve ever felt, ever done Sits just behind that white curtain. Will you carve it away To face yourself as you were With all of your imperfect stumbles and trips Or will you let it sit there, Undisturbed, No memory to burn in, No story to tell?

I cut them free Scored their shape Shaved them down Filled them up with organs Carved muscle upon their bones Painted them with skin And they all were beautiful. I bequeathed unto them A tough and jagged home: This I knew would hone them. But what good is a whetstone If the knife is blinded from finding it? By my hand They were borne into slithering cold And cloying night. This was the cost Of the self-proclaimed king’s greed. They begged me in voices like sand To break their darkness. How could I refuse my children? Again, I descended, Illuminating the halls and corridors Of the cottony heavens; Radiant, warm, and homey As Sun when he sets down to sleep. O how my children surged to rise! A mighty swell of limbs And a choir of mouths gaped with hunger. Every lovely tract of flesh Sculpted in shadows flung From the flame I cradled: A gift to them, Needing no repayment. So, As the eagle rips out my liver, I think of my children Making an art from the succulence of their