Energy drips from hanging vines —
your vascular form, twisting rope
threads in a violent movement, conjoining
semantic with somatic fingers,
electrifying neurons to hold, to ink.
The page a stele of memory
etched from the incision of cognition
into rudimentary words, poor urns
for the ashes of your “who”:
pottery pieces fragmented and forlorn
like runes and hieroglyphs of heathens
and romanticists whose reality’s rose withered;
paper burning, pottery breaking—
ink, a water colour drenched to pale nothings,
bleeding white.
But the movement excites you
if it does not memorialise you.
Exeunt, the elegy and the farewell:
Feel vitality, vitriol; love and
hate the fleeting finality,
breathe bloody everything —
the pen ink moves red with
muscular energy, elegiac munitions
and the body writes with pounding veins.
