ASSIGNMENTS:
|
|
Harold
San Francisco, California USA
|
|
REPORTS:
PREVIOUS NEXT
|
|
My body is dead; do something, please.
Bring my skin into sunlight.
Moisturize me:
With your favorite broth.
Kiss my knuckles:
You never did when they were warm with life.
Close my eyelids if they are open:
I cannot see you anymore.
Please.
Count my freckles:
I have.
I have counted yours too.
Take my clothes off; I do not like the feel of clothing:
Why should I when I am dead?
Paint your favorite colors onto my thighs,
your fondest constellation,
the most frank set of odd number words you could create:
For me.
For the body of me, when you are
painting
star gazing
assembling letters
Think of me when you are.
I have thought of you
every where
that I was.
Bring my skin into moonlight.
Touch me:
With all of that love I never felt, of which you spoke.
Measure the inches of space between my thighs,
when I am lain down,
my back to dirt,
multiply that number by tenfold,
add three:
This is how many light years I have wanted you to be touching me,
the way you used to.
Before.
This now.
Clean my belly button with your pinky.
Bring me out to your absolute nature, my absolute peace,
the field we never laid in,
under the stars:
lay with me.
Stay with me.
Just set me in the fire,
before I start to smell.
Please.
|
|
|
|
|
|
