ALL MAN’S LAND

Him —

In between this breath and the next,
I will find a 1000 burning sons
In the rage of a solivagant man
Who forgets he is an ever-blooming bud, still growing.

Amidst peace and pain
He flirts with his fathers’ cadaver, patrizate and unaware there is still time for the opsimath.
Within every moment of denial
— bottled artefacts in some abandoned museum of age—
he takes inventory, by folding his own skin into wrinkles and removing a beat from his lulling
chest.
Laborious lungs heavy with rigour anchored to sterile melancholia.
Tears. Coffee. Meeting. Smile. Blink. Payment. Inhale. Exhale. All scheduled side by side in his
calendar.

Me —

I cannot touch the edges of my nightmares
But sometimes I am lurched into the back alleys
Hacking through my own mind
Looped in phases of confused triumph
As I dangle truths before my own faltering lips
Insight
Travelling inter-dimensionally
I will stumble like a ghost to the vacant man
To fuse into his core and electrify those familiar pangs into present
What is more human than suffering?
Or sharing palms of blood in commitment
Becoming conjubilant mountains of coagulated red which I sing into psychoanalysis

“You think the earth is where you stand
Instead of the soles you stand on
Waiting wispily in some other dimension for I, this curious stranger, to trespass into your most
secret self”

Maybe
There is some worthy residue of humanity left within him
Maybe
He’ll be his fantasy in the morning
Maybe
He’ll still be lost to the unknown desert as I grieve his different faces and keep walking
One lost, one saved
In that rhythmic bitter agony of being

Us —

In between this world and the next
We will break 1000 rotting bones
Into a shelter for those who strayed alive
And remember the sensation of freedom-ache on the glimmering distance of time
To the death of such longings and the birth of such livings

Reality whimpers under imaginative eyes
Clouding the perceptibility of a dominant truth
That shared sky our enemies rest beneath
For which our grandermothers bled revenge
Daydreaming is the whispered language
At the ready-grave of unborn friendships
And in the empires of all man’s land.