Botched Awareness of Jettisoned Body
To say I want you to embosom me
with our conversation
and shepherd me into latency
would be a kind of poetic thing to do
though conversation is rarely that
And if such a thing were to occur
I’d most likely be watching your hips move
like a pendulum made of bone
on a clock that tells time by counting moments of pain.
You’d be in the bedroom naked
and I’d want to crawl inside you
to discover your machinations
against my bolted grain of consciousness.
On the rug trying to kiss your reflection
as it slipped purple fabric over your breasts
I warped my body into some mismanaged collection of organs
within which I produced the ancient rhythm of the mumble.
I wish I could melt between conversation
the way limestone dissolves itself
into layered fingers pointing out the sky’s atrocities
from the comfort of pupil darkness
though blind spots aren’t ever really there
until the retina decides to take vacation
from its support tissue
in which case photopsia
or orbital heaviness may occur
but don’t confuse me for a disclaimer
I’m merely trying to avoid head trauma.
from the carpet
I stood to meet you
halfway between the living
room and the bed room
to embrace you
I embosomed you
while you cried.
All I could offer at that point
were particles of truisms
about the rapidity of decay
the vaudeville called Stasis
and the fact that the only thing any of us
are inarguably good at
Joseph Lambert recently graduated from the University of Virginia Tech with a bachelor’s in English. On August 30th, you can scoot your browser over to purefrancis.org and check out another poem of his. Currently, he spends his time avoiding “real life” by writing too much and recommending terrible films to unsuspecting people. Battlefield Earth, anyone?