The Poet-in-myself builds the forest where trees will dream of a room covered with their dark and light brown flesh.
Flesh-in-itself. Calmly boiling in the name of Things, red bodily things.
Veins of wood will bleed on the bed where we question hours dark and light, covering flesh unstable.
Veins agitate and write on the floor like knives madly carving signs on Matters.
Veins-in-themselves, in the name of Things. Absolute bodies.
Imposing Matters, like those women arriving from the mountains and running. Those women are chaining packs of wolves that long for other possible moons
Feel the absence of redemptive Signs. Drink this alcohol.
This Poet is not here, not within our forest or room, not within our trembling memory or imagining fevers, not within streams against streams opposing Angst and Peace
If only you could drain this Desire escaping my bodily frame, escaping massively towards an Idea, maybe Faith of place where bodies open their chests
Maybe, no longer, between, amongst poets-in-themselves... We are building poets from scratch. Out of nonsense alphabeths...
If only you could come to the core of the bed where we conceive more agitation and remote pain...
Maybe we are chests and treasures doubting amongst Truths and Things.
We explode and abandon primitive Symbols meaning Indefinite Search, beyond Absolutes
The Universe suffers from Symbols
Every chest aches while disclosing fractured crosses
no longer, between, amongst our arms looking for One crucial dawning
my room I believe grows higher than the whole forest and deeper than the whole source of my First Aching.
Crucial muscles ache
My suffering is capable of everything in Art and other ways, fringe ways, touching burnt ruins, between, amongst, some fibers breathing, grasping warm silence or madness.
No one knows the matters that suddenly change.
hearts beat and stop suddenly.
Change of matters.
Tongue lost
