nothing to skin

"Quiet Silence", by Oleg Duryagin

 Cruelty has a human heart,
 And Jealousy a human face;
 Terror the human form divine,
 And Secresy the human dress.

 The human dress is forged iron,
 The human form a fiery forge,
 The human face a furnace sealed,
 The human heart its hungry gorge.
 (William Blake, “A Divine Image”)

fidgeting with reminiscences of a non-time square of burns and bringing them back into… play? no, today those rhymes I couldn’t put away for… woke me up – seedlessly without  a profound outward gutter to sleep in? dreamed role-transfigurations in the midst of…? through reveries, the slogs may be, they seem so delicate dances swish open, enlarging the abyss of feeling nothing amplifying the skin to touch the precipice of walking away without and (in-)prosing the unbearable side of this insensibility that sets me softly down beside the innocuous visible of the delusional, am I? that’s what gets me lost in the stream and chatter of a non-touch there are little birds crying out to be heard outside they are inviting me to keep up with I slit the window open and just hark back a glass of wine, on that table mixed up with books and photos and invisible lands, it is stuffing imaginations and echoes behind but, once I pour the liquid in to, once I go there ●  there's nothing to skin neither fear, nor boldness there’s no heat, no chill not even a wish ● of crying, of whisper, nothing to laugh off or tear down ● I don’t want to grin or bear up against whatever I only skim over the birds, and the wine, and across everything enticing me to flute with but can’t recognize them in me there's neither hunger, nor a glut of things not even overwhelming steps or pulp delusions nothing to blush to or leave behind, there's nothing to skin have I moved out… away from me? who knows everything, please don't say me the way who knows nothing, I beg you, just remain softly in your hush  don't despair, don't concern I even no longer remember who’s traced me this   


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