Sharp, vertical incision to the [inside of my] left wrist. Traces of blood bubble: red pearls on the string of my inner:outer self. Border. Less. I see my skin unbound. You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I unstitch [my] self. Open to the flow of things to come.
Sharp – intake of breath
the world’s breathing
fills [my] lungs
and moves me, cell by cell: this co respondance
my breathing:your breath
you fill me fill you fill me:
of [y]our breath
As I am filled, I empty. Piercing horizontal line
a third of the way down
that first vertical:
more red pearls – rising to the surface from unknown unguessable depths
breath of air
Score three more. Just three more. Score more. Be more. Score.
And with that final score I am: [myself]
in my [divine] image:
flesh made word
this wound my name in flesh
[my] border : less
[to those who do not see]
[to those who cannot read]
I give myself this new name to take [back] the power I never had. Never. Have. The things you do [in my name] are not on my behalf. I add my name to thousands who stand against you – my [blind and silent] voice screams in [dead] air and [nobody] awakes. This house does not crumble. Dismembered voice. Forgotten dreams. A disembodied silence is my muted cry to [in]different ears. Inside speech’s silent centre my [sub]atomic bomb explodes: breaking the boundaries of this world, breaking
I fold-score-tear: and make the cut. [Blank] folio sections waiting to absorb – the ink the blood that flows from unbound veins to write [myself] into [your] story, [your] time. Thus. Write my progress. See how I [am] deliver[ed]. De livered. De livred. De lived.
Livré à l’anarchie
My only recourse.
[I am] bound to radical action by [your] attacks upon [my] borders –
I stitch with [my own] hair; lace [my] sinew stretched; bind [in my own skin]. This story that: I Am
nor be contained:
I overflow [these] pages:
Live beyond [these] borders
5 thoughts on “Saille : Willow”
I suppose I’m a bit biased because I’ve never liked the random-esque spacing style, but that was an impressively morbid piece.
Why, thank you. I like to think there’s also hope : between the lines 🙂
🙂 There certainly is, but it’s reads as a morbid sort of hope, if that makes any sense.
It’s one of my earliest attempts at writing a kind of utopian consciousness that finds its presence in the violence of the everyday.
I was just re-reading this page on utopian poetics, and it seems to explain a bit about my thought processes: https://sallyshaktiwillow.wordpress.com/utopian-poetics/
Thanks for taking the time to comment on my writing 🙂
Interesting – I can see that now that you mention it, but I think I misread it as somewhat more religious-feeling than utopian-yerning when I first read it.
No problem. Besides, it’d be a bit silly if we all posted things and no one ever mentioned it when they found something someone else wrote interesting. 🙂