The Night Of A Thousand And One Paper Cuts

Imprisoned by your poetry,
(Cell) membrane flayed, flamed
As roses set the frost on fire.
Sonnet’ised stanza
Turns my skin to
A purple love bite.
 
Breath of my sightations
Moisten her index finger,
In Wo(o)lf waves
Ocean kerb kisses silver froth
Its eternal tide is set to auto-pilot.
We have nothing to wait for:
Only the succulent seduction
In our delicious seclusion.
 
Tissue’d Titian fibres
Carefully open entry to
Museum of Immaterial Mind:
Rooms one to ten glaze over,
Twelve is the café at end of world, and
Thirteen……well 13 is her.
 
Oh, who forgot to wake Alice?
In the narrow water of two birds
An A4 sparrow finds solace on paper boat
Origami lovers fold themselves into a sex box
Suddenly,
Age of wire and string became flimsier.
After ribs and mud, to become
Born of the ground
Into fonts and unknown colour.
Peoples of the paper
Can you even defy murmuring breeze?
 
So many days
So many hours of two lives
 
So many rooms
    And such light,
 
So many alphabets
      And such words,
In the precocious dusted air.
 
And such a silence now,
Now that that night has come.
 
We have worn this epilogue
Scribbled epitaphs in cranium cemeteries,
Spoke rapidly, in monochrome hue,
As if voices were soon to be stolen.
Thus, we know
The papyrus decree xc22
‘All paper walls will come a’ tumbling down.’
 
It will be smouldering moon light
Which cremate the paragraph people
And singe a Universe chapter.
 
Hold this magnifying glass,
Twist into teeth of the sun,
Burn your biography on my flesh
And tattoo our hopes
Across my tiring heart.
 
 
#ERULGCT #4
 
Pic. Writer’s Block. Sheryl Orig. Installation at Bebelplatz. 66 steel cages crammed with ancient typewriters: one to commemorate each author whose books were burnt by Nazis on 10 May, 1933.