you talent me into believing how i make things fall apart like my one explanation of how the spaces here concur
light me, please (a series)
by:
brandon borcoman
imagine me placing myself in a room throwing off masks i forget my eyes my smile i forget how to strange
in the wild of sitting still a chair with three legs fixing in suspension :i place my hand in the blankness and learn
how to walk upon slippery while my footprints feel laced, creviced. i flashlight my face : wooden / dark
in my attempt to electric i socket myself and wail things: a glass fixture of my mother a placid lake a reintegration
(as if) this lacked enough, i founded a belief in placement as in the placement of your neck replicating my own. i press repeat in your soft place ,do you like it
my language that tends toward fondle and speculation regarding the magic of this nothing appears to bend
:
so i set the fire on grass and reel i say light me, please toss upon oh, to be wrecked in blades and green
and
slitting tiny magic with fists i light needles and watch my mirrors this is ecstatic i breathe in and
fall abstractly in love between rain clouds i supersonic myself with mustache and think life is composed so strict-formed and what does it feel like
to rapidly grope for the smooth while in the corner there lays semblance draped upon the windowsill. slowly i unfurl it
with words though, none of this speaks relevance to my outering of space. i conjecture: possible is where two points meet so as to plethora
it is in this thrust we walk upwards steep ourselves into the forcibly calm binding experiments of stupification
if to wake means slipping let me bright & shine on let the dirt make up my face and change my buttons horrifically
i think to perfect is too intensely i say don’t perfect me, i need creases where the smooth used to lay i need blankness to be ready when i am
but today i’ll sit here in linger so coffee will have to light my face with bulbs i’ll glee phantasmagorically
pursuing myself to revere inaction i’ll murmur : how does my skull look enlightened, is it shiny
like kant said it is imperative to act within categories of ends or something stupid i can’t even remember without spacing myself
revealing only in glimmers. THIS IS HOW I SCARE : taking big huffs and letting it back under where i hold my every alteration
but, really
in this place, yeah i scream up eulogies pondering the significance of lying still in panic. i gaze while the ceiling lowers to meet my face
i guess i go weepy searching for some rigid form to stick me or scoop me scoop me
you know,
yes, the end