The World Is Too Full to Talk About

The Epic of October
(1)
It always only lasts a while
some seed planted, dies alone in the grave of the womb
never becoming some flower or fruit.
I talk to you for a day or two and imagine a world in which I could
love and be loved without fear
I cannot write you anything
expression has stagnated as in our world
death becomes a growing business
and images of bodies devoid of inner life
reduced to bags of blood spilled on the floor
invade our daily living
when I was dancing the other day I thought of you
I pushed my arms inside my heart and used force against
some abstract movement I am totally helpless to
I begin to love you despite my muscles rushing together, in a state of
emergency
I think of my mother and her tyrannical love, her sadness punches me in the gut
and I stand paralysed.
you, like everyone else before you
some I spent months, some years, thinking I could love
are absolutely unaware of this embarrassing fire inside me
I push it farther inside and wait for it to die
always I am trapped inside the animalistic urge to fulfil the purpose of being. to
love and fuck and grow
and the cruel, unmoving odds of ever finding something true and beautiful
* * * * * * * *
For you I cannot remove my skin
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