24.11.17

dialer dialogues xviii

i am weak like a grapevine, sinuous and drunk, clutter of tungs. i ply ployed play. i walk on the dead and they talk among themselves like cats. who knows the stretches of soul as it languishes in slaughtered deserts? i’ve seen leaves rise like stars on the crucifixion of time and not flinched. who has not shed some clothes for unremembered passages? who has not said no to opening a door? i am strong like yone and shige. the dead are not the unliving, nor are they the oncehavebeen. the dead are us, traded around strange guberniyas. let us sing together our untranslatable songs, on ashes of quashed fires, stories of silent joy

i walk a bridge from void to void, upon arriving a voidoid i become, form of see, weird of know

and dialogue is not some exchange between two or more parties seeking understanding, means, ends. dialogue is a rupture in night’s impenetrability, blinding us to ourselves, convention knowledge virtue effort … this wandering lacking destination or measure, words disturbed muttering of wind

we have spoken you and i across the spaces. we have placed ourselves like imaginary planks on death’s infinite bog and walked across and our walking is our words

who said love is anything but these spaces, this place and walking?

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