From Dreamswept Fuckscape

From dreamswept fuckscape

you surfaced to skin.

From sleepsunk night

through half hidden borderlands:

the interstitial spaces of want and have

to the flatlands of a needsome Now,

and found like all surfacing, the superficial

safety of non-committal

pales beside the depths of mingled DNA-

where we exist at truest, 

Where communal histories dance

in millennial veils.

 

Dreams, our clothes at their most naked

and in the awakening we feel

all surfacing a lie-

and yet, where we intersect

at the boundaries of sentences and skin

weaving ourselves to the depths of us,

searching for the other,

we imprint our loves

on the descent into us,

drag the ghosts of our impressions of them into cores

where bodies cling to crusts

and intellect slips to the mantle of our being.

We make phantoms of ourselves

and bind ourselves to myth.

 

We live tangential to life

pulling the edges inwards,

acquiring skins to consume,

ingesting all surface out of desire.

Inwardly tumbling in gleeful freefall

to the half-dreamt marrow of our souls.

But we are not there,

and

we only exist at the margins.

We are all surface.

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