Indrani Sengupta
Boise, ID
SOMNILOQUY
1.
this space I have no real language to measure
is made of primordial sound the margins of primordial sound
my self concaved neath the drum
of a footed darkness,
if darkness were a lapsing into cells,
if darkness were a filth-tipped resonance
a bloodless dying a learned unbreathing
a negation
into bedrock
I cling in language:
I do not wish to throat a tree:
I do not wish for trees to spring from throats
I do not wish for throats to become trees
I do not wish to throat- to throat,
wordless and soundless as trees
I will carve my self
back into bedrock
into bone
through negation
2.
brutal and indiscriminate flowering
of bruises
a conveyor belt of hands turn The Torso’s left wall into pin cushion into abstract painting into beaten dinner. this logic of canvases of carcasses changes each second. The Arms become a ringing backdrop for tribal ritual, a thousand lilliputian throats and thighs singing “look how far the I can go.”
some relief in soft-lit translucence, in floating nudity. upon large white curtain spaces, automatons of movement pivot about my fixed point of self. they serve. they suckle. they seek new spaces Pelvic crumbling into
flowers
in the chemistry of waking, I would not burden flowers with such signage, but WHAT DOES I KNOW ABOUT I keep circling into different levels of Inferno, self-stuttered- stuttering self and self and self-
I cannot this chemistry YOU are intent on submerging me These are not MY LILIES I’VE
STRUNG THIS NOT MY POETRY I SPOKE for Bring me back
