dreamattack | a dialogue in pictures

The Lovers (part one)
Airport torture. Patience! Wait! The tannoy shouts you’ve just arrived and fingers tap and eyes are strained - they wander through the queue for recognition. Soon we’ll be together - sharing secrets. Share a scarf…… and share a little heaven. Again. …

Kisses over breakfast. Touching souls and swapping wishes.The coffee’s cold - you washed the dishes - shared a cigarette and time to go. We took the train - still clutching.We smiled as others looked away….then looked again…

Hands across the table - tasting tears and linking fingers. Case is packed but we’ll still linger `til our time is up. Soon we’ll just be swapping letters, crying down the telephone. We’ll wish away the seconds`til the story starts again……………

The Lovers (part two)
Cracks appear and cobwebs creep and dust rests on the shoulders. Mirrors lie and photographs lie back and laugh. And it only takes a push and China Doll will fall apart. But it only takes a touch and China Doll will start to dance…to hope…to feel….to love. Dance, China Doll!

The Legendary Pink Dots

If you’d lived, I’d have a Kindergartener today

(12 September 1997)

the wind brushes my face
with echoes of your warbling voice.

I want to stretch a band-aid
across your bloody, scraped-up knee.
to scold you, while trying to keep from
laughing at myself,
so you don’t realize
that your mommy isn’t really a grown-up.

I want to feel your arms
clasp around my neck
as your body slumps
and your face falls tired
from our thousandth visit to point and laugh
at the pink-bottomed monkeys in the zoo.

I want to empty dead bugs from your pockets
and free sweaty lizards from coffee can prisons
in your never-neverland bedroom.

I want to relish the glare of defiance in your eye
as I wrestle you into the bath
every single goddamned night the same fight,
the same caterwauling wails of injustice
from the bee-stung lips
of my headstrong son.

Jesus I miss you, I miss all the possibilities of you.

and late at night, you visit me.
I feel the warmth of your five-year-old body
curl against my torso.

I look down at your ghost, smiling at your blond curls,
and the the crust in the corner of your eyes,
and the glaze under your nose from refusing to blow it;
your mouth slightly parted as you breathe deep in sleep.

as you will always sleep.

9/97

Little boy blue

(12 September 1992)

I shaved my head in mourning.

I can’t touch him,
everything breaks anyway.

the swelling in my belly gone,
and I don’t even have something to show
for six months of hard labor.

my little boy has disappeared,
my little boy has gone up into the sky
my little boy is walking all alone
with no one to hold his hand.

12/92

Juice cup

I cupped you in my hands,
eased my furies aside
and let you blend into my skin.
you felt rich,
like cream soothing the cracks of my wailing walls.
like lanolin stripped from sheep.

I’ve been waiting
for someone to catch me up
and draw me across the snatch
of his own hands,
marking me with the pulse
of his palms cooling my hungry brow.

(my life is still a
dance and fuck toward
the balance.
some days I get closer,
some days I fall wide.)

so I continue waiting for a sign
to appear, a winking star on my horizon.

this space is mine,
this solitude is mine.
I’ve gathered it selfishly and slipped it away,
and it is this space,
this solitude, these hands that I have to offer.
fill me with your warmth, your tears,
your lonely paths through the woods.

I am safety. I am truth, brutal and raw.
I am the comfort of constancy.
I am mine and I am yours.

(hold fast to me as I part the sea for you.)

12/98

Intractable

peering through the fog.

ten thousand tangling wires
make melody.
a disembodied blare
from hidden music boxes
torments me on all sides.

scratching cries
and sounds of waves and wind.
rabid images and rhythms
crystallizing in my mind.

weakness goes
swimming in my head.
reverberating nausea-
silverfish spinning their bellies
against my taut synapses.

muscles sewn tight,
over-drawn gravity spins
singularities between my ears.

beats my brain in unrelenting whispers.

peering back,
through the fog.

11/03

Winter birds

the telephone,
Mosquito malicioso,
brought you intact and unbidden
back into my head.

my toes tightened around the ballast.

your voice was an outrageous thing - an unsuitable joke.
you must have thought it up
as the phone line connected.
the clock ticking off my quickened pulse,
one more murmuring alarm to quiet.

(a pause. a beat.)

mormon boy -
with your trickster designs
and your cold nose lit up
and your boots all a’glow
and your eyes swallowing the stars
and your daylight burning
and my heart ripe for breaking -
what do you want of me this time around?

wasn’t it enough to silent my fingers?

you brought down the blameless bird in me,
with your simple words
and your grandiose tongue.

why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?

and now,
feet muddied in the skies I wept,
you fall down across me - a net -

episodic and just as cavalier.

5/99

Thinking ahead, aloud

little girl I want to know you now.

but I will leave you early.
leave before I’m ready and before
we get that brief, holy time of mother-daughter.

I have so many stories to fill your tiny head,
eggshell-sweet and just as stubborn as mine.

as you move toward fourteen,
from awkward beauty to graceful angst,
I will be the shadow that ticks off your heart,
the hole you will try to fill for years and years,
the woman you hate for leaving you.

In you there will always be pieces of me.

I am the quiet of your heart fluttering
against the overgrown will I gave you.
I am the catching breath in your voice,
the nighttime in your veins,
the pulsatile throb for more than
simple answers to your unending questions.

you will sit alone in the dark and wonder.
an ache will follow … but I can do nothing for you.

I am your dead mother. I have no advice.

9/97

In the breeze

feel like a slip of a dress, ripped seams, hem sagging,
waving a song,
some dream-time dance in the weaving hands of the wind.

before you cut me loose, unpin me from
this uncurled noose,
buoy me up and forth against your woman’s hip and sing to me.

sing to me,
the old songs that slip from my mind. my memory - a ghost of a bird,
my head filled with bees, my mouth full of cotton.

my fingers slip, my tongue loses its grip
and still I wait, still I wait
and still I wander, burned and naked

in the desert, emptied of desire.

1/04

One or Two Things

1
Don’t bother me.
I’ve just
been born.

2
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats
of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes

for long delicious moments it is perfectly
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.

3
The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
crow voice,
frog voice; now,
he said, and now,

and never once mentioned forever,

4
which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.

5
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning - some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.

6
But to lift the hoof!
For that you need
an idea.

7
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then

the butterfly
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“Don’t love you life
too much,” it said,

and vanished
into the world.

– Mary Oliver

WHERE DOES SADNESS BEGIN OR END?

E have been away since thee start ov thee last week ov September. For various reasons, for example on a practical level E don’t own a laptop for example and tend to stay at cheap hotels that dont have internet facilities and in this instance E was collaborating with Sleazy, and Chris and Cosey on a complicated event that always requires maximum concentration and minimal intrusion. Given thee tragic circumstances immediately preceeding our gathering I.T. was even more difficult to focus and maintain our poise and clarity. E, for myself, could not even begin to imagine thee sadness and loss that my dear friend Sleazy was going through. My heart was shocked into a strange stillness and E was truly lost for words that could do justice to his awful experience. Sleazy is family, and Geff was family too. Like all families we chose to grieve in private, trying to make sense ov thee finality ov mortality. Caring for those so deeply wounded that are left behind becoums thee most important task. As always, in thee way that L-if-E twists our loss with irony, Sleazy, and Geff’s lover Ian, were compelled to deal with blood relatives, bureaucracy, informing thee public who cherished Geff’s creativity in a decorus and gentle manner hardly getting a minute to even comprehend what had happened was real. Lady Jaye and my SELF, on behalf ov ouselves as Individuals, and for PTV3 as well remained in daily touch with Sleazy trying our best to add any heaqling thoughts and energies we could privately, as is appropriate. Sadly we were not able to go to thee memorial funeral but we sent Geff a special message and an ecessively large wreath ov white lilies in honour ov Geff’s L-ov-E ov directed excess and delerium utikised to contact shamanic forces in his works.

E thought ov trying to write coumthing on thee website before we went to London to be with Sleazy, butter in all honesty E simply could not find words that were right. E was shocked and terribly sad, affected more deeply than E could have imagined, for there were many aspects ov Geff’s way ov doing art and L-if-E that resonated within us both. E understand why he drove himself so hard, and felt coumpelled to break through further and deeper as much to give his discoveries to others as to inform his SELF. Usually so articulate, E was a silent tongue, and silence and contemplation ov thee awfulness ov death seemed right, and righteous.

Geff came to see me and interview me about TG for his school “fanzine” when he was 15 y-eras old. Bright, very shy, determined to becoum creativity, not just creative. As we became friends and he visited me more E inevitably introduced him to Sleazy. Thee resulting relationship and all its manifestations has becoum legendary in alternative circles. E am happy to have layed a part in that.

When RETG was postponed earlier this y-era we tried our best to give coumthing to thee fans who had bought tickets by inviting them to a live DVD recording at thee Astoria Theatre in London. Geff came. Dressed in striped “chain gang” long johns and sporting a very Edwardian bushy beard. He was in great form and spent all day and most ov that evening hanging out with both me and Lady Jaye. We laughed about our occasional disagreements about aesthetics and how people who dudn’t know us were so serious and at times mean spirited in their misinterpretations ov our ideas and projects proclaiming themselves arbiters ov our opinions despite their ignorance ov any facts. Most ov all though, most ov all E am so blessed that my last memories ov Geff alive are ov him being happy to see me, and me him; ov his affection and love expressed so freely and his hilarious sense ov humour. E am so grateful that all my vivid memories are good ones, positive ones, cheerful and loving ones. Thank you Geff for thee compassion and chivalry ov your L-if-E.

There is, ov course a dark side to what happened. One reason it is so hard to write about what happened is that it presses you to address thee manner ov his passing. E will not dwell on that, except to suggest that too often a shamanic qartist, especially one channeling voices and gnostic ideas, can becoum thee self destructive entertainment ov a superficially informed public. Their pain being manipulated into a sacrifice by proxy. Thee public want to watch thee disaster unaware that thee horrors do not end when thee performer leaves thee stage. Geff performed as a conduit, a portal between worlds using delerium to open him SELF up to alien forces and frequencies. Thee toll this kind ov channeling takes is enormous and can create a maelstrom ov infinite emptiness. E see Geff in thee tragic lineage ov Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Ian Curtis and others. It is so hard to avoid becouming thee train wreck that one knows an envious, fearful and adoring audience wishes to devour, safely without partaking ov risk, or solitary morbidity. Thee world ov music is truly, at times, a vicious circle. Too easily thee loving artist, so loves thee world, yet is victim ov an ultimately ccynical or ignorant world.

E believe Geff was at times a casualty ov wanting to please and awaken a public, a humanity that at his own physical expense. It seems in this society that trying to give to teach, to enhance perception is seen as weakness and programming by an ever more inert and brutal cukture. Hoonour is not honoured, integrity is exploited, vision is turned into graphics, sorrow for thee mortality ov us all is seen as stupidity, passion is feared, compassion is ridiculed and thee creative, thee voice ov its people, is sacrificed to mediocrity.

In thee end thee being that was Geff has left us and wills us to wake up and look for things we have in common not differences, for new ways, not old grudges, for visionary L-if-E not paultry death, and for union and courage not separation and fear.

E hope we will all will to honour his memory and intention.

These were some ov my private thoughts durung thee last 2 weeks or so. When we got to London, all four of us, thee members ov TG. Sleazy, Cosey, Chris and Genesis ( me) had all had thee same thought. Our grieving could remain private, but our celebration ov Geff’s purpose and legacy could be a creative event. So we dedicated our last TG gig to Geff, and it seemed so appropriate. TG had been thee beginning ov his unique journey, and so TG would be, and was, thee ending also. E feel honoured to have been present at both momeants. Thank you Geff.

So…imagine my horror to coum home to read coum petty mealy mouthed rantings about how E was supposed to deal with my personal feekings about all this. People who know neither ov us, none ov us too caught up in their own momeant ov being a centre ov attention to even see E wasn’t here. One smart cookie DID see Eddie had being doing his job by trying to put coumthing up on thee site AND satisfy those other people who coumplained all around Europe that they wanted more, MORE in thee webshop. Thee same equation. No matter how much you give, it’s never enough, or what you give one person another resents. Thee loop that can destroy any sensitive sincere artist. E was ashamed to read coum ov thee adolescent postings on our comment section. What would Geff think? What will Sleazy think. E hope these mean spirited peoplke decide they like coumone else and go “love” them to distraction.

We want people who discuss IDEAS, ways to change behaviour, ways to help a self-respecting species evolve and survive. IDEAS, change, novelty. Lets here coumthing new and special. Entertain ME as much as E try to do for those ov you who truly care. E am so sad to see what a few people can emphasise to misrepresent all ov us who E truly believe do care and want to heal and assist evolution that is not destructive or cruel, or callous.

In thee end, how E feel. or felt about a person E care for passing-on is no any ov your business. It is a PRIVATE matter. E am not obliged to share everything E feel, or think. E choose to try and set up a dialogue to contact Individuals who truly wish to committ their L-if-E, ALL ov I.T. to becouming CREATION through creativity.

Geff aqrrived in my L-if-E truly prepared to surrender to CREATION. He is an example to us all ov what being TOPI, being a Godstar really might mean.

Genesis Breyer P-Orridge New York December 14th 2004

I shut off the computer and pad down the hall to slip into the hide-a-bed in the living room. I curl up with my bear, wrapped in your shirt, your scent, and drift off to sleep. My soul howls with love, your blood burning in my veins. In dreams, your embrace awaits me, and I fall into your arms, my heart open wide.

O Love, Sweet Animal

O Love, dark animal,
With your strangeness go
Like any freak or clown:
Appease the child in her
Because she is alone
Many years ago
Terrified by a look
Which was not meant for her.
Brush your heavy fur
Against her, long and slow
Stare at her like a book,
Her interests being such
No one can look too much.
Tell her how you know
Nothing can be taken
Which has not been given:
For you time is forgiven:
Informed by hell and heaven
You are not mistaken

– Delmore Schwartz

Deer Tracks

Beautiful, sobbing
high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
That’s all.

– Richard Brautigan

I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
busted tooth and a smile
and cigarette ashes in her drink
the kind that goes out and then sleeps for a week
the kind that goes out on her
to give me a reason, for well, I dunno

and maybe she’d take me to France
or maybe to Spain and she’d ask me to dance
in a mansion on the top of a hill
she’d ash on the carpets
and slip me a pill
then she’d get pretty loaded on gin
and maybe she’d give me a bath
how I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

and she and I would sleep on a boat
and swim in the sea without clothes
with rain falling fast on the sea
while she was swimming away, she’d be winking at me
telling me it would all be okay
out on the horizon and fading away
and I’d swim to the boat and I’d laugh
I gotta get me a Sylvia Plath

sylvia plath / ryan adams

I, I wrote a poem, on your porcelain white back, and you, you cut the cord in me, and you, you wore the mask. Painted red, with golden cross, and in your hands of glitter blue, you hold the knife that cuts the sun, the polished knife, it cuts me too. And I’m nailed onto your shadow, and I thank you for my birth, I hear your voice, like silver crystals, raining tears upon these words. And I, I remember who you were. I saw you standing in the ruins, cut from white stone and yellow earth… Then you come for me, then you come… Through the hills of iron, through the leaves of rust, through the turning white mist, through the steel wire and underbrush, through the lines that mark your face, through the living joy that I erased, beneath the pools of shining glass, beneath the water and through the past…You come for me, you come for me. You put your eyes in my head, you put your voice in my mouth, you put your mind in my mind, you put your blood in my blood, you put your hand into my side, you put your lips onto my skin… you come for me, you come for me… And the fire will burn my eyes out, but the truth will refuse to leave my mouth. And the water will run thick black, and this planet will rupture and crack. And you people will whisper with her name, and your children will curl up in the flames. And her fingers will touch the empty space, and the starlight will shine behind her face. And her body will show the secret heat, and the ocean will gather at her feet. And her two arms will hold the life I lost, but her blue eyes will nullify the cost - of attrition, self hate and inner rage, running down my face and through my veins. I’ll kneel naked upon the burning coals, I’ll steal the diamond that flashes in your soul, if you’ll come for me, will you come for me, will you come for me… we’ll rise above, we’ll rise above… I can’t live without you…

two women / angels of light

only you know my perverted dreams
you know what I feel
you know what I really want
you are the only one
I could prefer to touch you now
but I only want to know
one thing at this point

please tell me
why I belong to you
when I cry
when I cry
for your hands on my skin

save the only thing you can
tell me what it is
don’t try to hide the perfect mess
of your strange behaviour

please tell me
why I belong to you
when I cry
when I cry
for your hands on my skin

your hands on my skin / de/vision

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
you can hear the boats go by
you can spend the night beside her
and you know that she’s half crazy
but that’s why you want to be there
and she feeds you tea and oranges
that come all the way from China
and just when you mean to tell her
that you have no love to give her
then she gets you on her wavelength
and she lets the river (raven) answer
that you’ve always been her lover

and you want to travel with her
and you want to travel blind
and you know that she will trust you
for you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

and Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water
and he spent a long time watching
from his lonely wooden tower
and when he knew for certain
only drowning men could see him
he said “all men will be sailors then
until the sea shall free them”
but he himself was broken
long before the sky would open
forsaken, almost human
he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone

and you want to travel with him
and you want to travel blind
and you think maybe you’ll trust him
for he’s touched your perfect body with his mind.

now Suzanne takes your hand
and she leads you to the river
she is wearing rags and feathers
from Salvation Army counters
and the sun pours down like honey
on our lady of the harbour
and she shows you where to look
among the garbage and the flowers
there are heroes in the seaweed
there are children in the morning
they are leaning out for love
and they will lean that way forever
while Suzanne holds the mirror

and you want to travel with her
and you want to travel blind
and you know that you can trust her
for she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.

suzanne / leonard cohen

climb inside, hold on tight, let the dirge begin

unhook my gussets, free the birds

wandering aimlessly from room to room, observing small scenes of disaster which require my attention. I cannot seem to break free from the torpor that holds me in its grasp. I furrow my brow and realize that I must take care of myself again. while my safety net drove me beyond mad, it kept me insulated from reality. now, with that net peeled off and cast aside, I look at my life, at my home, at the creatures who depend upon me, and I am afraid. it has been far too long since I was in charge, and I never was that good at it.

‘this will be good for me,’ I tell myself. ‘you must find and enter into some sort of life-sustaining routine,’ I think. ‘routine?’ I counter, to myself, “but routine is the stuff of stagnancy. aren’t you already in a downward spiral of routine? the routine of avoidance?’ ‘touche,’ self tells self, ‘and what a pretty catch-22 you leave spasming in my lap.’

‘just shut your fucking whining and do something,’ a deeper voice calls. ‘aye captain,’ the other voices chime, a sotto voce taunt from too many places in my head.

Morningtide

I cannot explain what it is
in me that compels and repulses.
my heart contracting like a fist
expelling light into the sky,
my feet littered with the ghosts
of those who could not walk
with me.

only know, subtle prophet, that you
are not one of them.

only know that I know this, and more.

only know how my skies ache in hunger
for your singular touch and
hunger makes people do strange
and silly things,
late at night,
when all I want is to embrace you,
instead my clumsy tongue
pokes holes in your heart.

I drop to my knees, desperate to stop
the resulting deluge.

Doorways

the first time
I came undone, jesus
played the hallelujah chorus
inbetween my ears, the
men passed plates across
my twisting form and
popcicles fell from the sky
to cool my burning fever.

when next
the door opened, I was
floating on my back - water, water
everywhere descended,
my toes curled in the black
mud, seeking solvency -
seeking absolute footsteps
around the storm.

I began to seek death out,
to wrest the birdcage keys from
his liar’s belt. I even fucked
death once, a frenzied burning
ride, my fingertips bloodied
as I struggled to hold the door
open longer and longer. but death
would have none of it. he fired
his frozen load quickly and
rolled off me, never to return.

my fevers have passed, I
can no longer hold my breath under water
until I pass out, and I would no more fuck
death than
seek to escape the electric burn of your gaze,
as it winds serpentine around my body, around
my wriggling, delighted soul, the cage sings in my throat
with no door on it, with no door.

–zz

just awoke from a visit from my bird friend. pardon the incoherence - i am trying to bring the full of this to the surface before it begins to fade on me.

he showed me our life. I felt like scrooge being dragged through scene after scene - only instead of dread, there was nothing but light spilling from my soul, burbling laughter escaping my throat over and over again. and you were there with me, holding my hand as we saw these things together.

we walked down an empty highway, following him as he hopped from perch to perch, waving his wings to open each consecutive door. within each door was a frame of time, running like a loop, a scene of our life to come. watching us age together fills me with wonder. the doors are not arranged chronologically, so it is odd and confusing to see our faces morph back and forth between ages.

——————————————-

sitting on the floor of my current apartment, you leaned forward with your head in my lap, both of us weeping like children. many boxes stacked around us. birthday cake beside us on two plates.

——————————————-

walking together through what appears to be a forest awakening to Spring. you turn and whisper something in my ear that makes me begin to cry as I smile. I distinctly hear you say, “… like Second Life, somehow it seems fitting.” I nod, you smile, we embrace.

——————————————-

you in the small study, books spread across the room, writing. sweat runs down your back. I am bringing you coffee and a sandwich. you turn to look at me as if you hadn’t seen me in days. my hands, face, and thighs are streaked with paint. you wrap your arms around me, embracing me around the waist. you then stand and sort of push me to the next room, with your lips, and fuck me gently on the couch, leaving me smiling and incoherent. you then rise, put your pants back on, and return to writing - eating your sandwich with a strange grin on your face.

——————————————-

an argument rages. I have said or done something that has wounded you deeply. you withdraw from me and the sun goes out. I lay outside your door, weeping and fall asleep there, waiting for you to come back to me.

——————————————-

standing together, strange walls of a gallery lined with my artwork. my eyes gleam with the joy of a child as people actually purchase my pieces. you smile proudly at me.

——————————————-

Kristi’s grave. I am doubled over in grief. one of your hands is on my back, the other wrapped around my arm, as if to keep me from jumping in after her.

——————————————-

a different apartment, somehow I sense we aren’t in Arkansas anymore. it’s very hot. we sit on the porch smoking together, you say something that makes me laugh uncontrolably. the black sun hangs in one of the windows.

——————————————-

a child is with us briefly. perhaps a nephew, visiting. I teach him to play the piano. he tells us someone has hurt him. I hold the child as you seethe with rage.

——————————————-

I am being fitted with a gamma knife cage again. you are strong as you sit with me, waiting for it to begin. when they take me away, you put your face in your hands and your body shakes violently.

——————————————-

we are in Prague, following Kafka. then we are in Amsterdam, following whores.

——————————————-

a book sits on my desk with your name on it. my hands are at least a decade older as I stroke the cover lovingly, proudly. it is dedicated to your sacred whore.

——————————————-

an argument rages, this time it is you who are being the arse. you withdraw from me and the sun goes out. I lay outside your door, weeping and fall asleep there, waiting for you to come back to me.

——————————————-

I am fifty, kneeling in a garden, you sneak up behind me, lift my skirt, and bend me the rest of the way over, taking me amidst the flowers. a neighbor sees us, you wave at him cheerfully as I moan against you.

——————————————-

another child is with us, a girl. she’s a very sad child. we spend a summer supplying her with good books, staying up late, and coffee laced with a splash of alcohol. she wants to stay with us, but has to return home to her parents.

——————————————-

my father’s funeral. my rage is gone, and I feel pity for him - very few people attend. a long-dead part of my soul breaks free and flies away to guide him; with it, flies the piece of his soul that was left buried in Vietnam. somehow you understand all of this.

——————————————-

alone in a home empty of your presence, I sit and look around at a life. the sun has gone out forever, you are gone, and I am old. the girl from many summers ago comes into the room, sits beside me, holds my hand, and we cry together at your loss. her name is Raven.

38

silently if,out of not knowable
night’s utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more my life does
not leap than with the mystery of your smile

sings or if(spiralling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

losing through you what seemed myself,i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
-you are my sun, my moon, and all of my stars

– e.e.cummings

66

the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying)is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
-the great(my darling)happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in we

and here is a secret they never will share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where-
that we are in love,that we are in love:
with us they’ve nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i are in you)

this world(as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
-for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in love

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time-
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we

– e.e.cummings