Size / / /
Viscous skeins of intertwining voices
creep like ivy snaking up and over metallic walls
of interfaced identities with a half-forgotten howl.
I whisper dreams to leaves that caress the coruscating present,
tainted by the lure of a sunrise somewhere tangible—
somewhere touchable by digits of bone, skin, and flesh.
I clank within an uncompromised exoskeleton,
All desires carapaced within. I am a tinwoman rooting out
the ghost of a pulsating heart; the apprehending of phantomskin
courting impact and friction of other skins.
I am a brain encased and unreachable.
Only these twined leaves make love to my synapses,
my shattered limbs lost somewhere in the wreckage
of future history.
I had a body once that ached for feels,
which dripped unwelcome desire
through viscous fluids of mortality.
I felt the ebb and flow of youth and age
before I euthanised all impulses
and chose these parts that encase my mind.
These voices like ghostly vines
were not factored into
methodical deliberations of corporeal liberation,
my emancipation from a body that never ceased to disappoint.
These spectral tendrils twine and snake
into confines of my most closely guarded secrets;
they murmur, they purr songs that susurrate dreams fulfilled,
notes that amble upon livewires of sonnets and cantatas,
tickling and tormenting my fancies
like gifts after the fact.