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toccare
every where
every thing
purges of passion paint
rocks jagged, static beside
the mediterranean sea:
ART IS myprison
words wrenched
from creators-to-see
with selves still to slay
before—entwined, apart—
becoming unity
art is not my anything
but every one
myfreedom
a universe of pores,
the body-being
goes innately the way
of the exalted sponge—
each sense ravenous,
rapturous at the subtlest
stimulus despite signs
that dare demand
DO NOT TOUCH
of fingertips insatiable
for knowingness.
what's deepest within
is what's right on the skin—
bodyscapes stripped,
landscapes laid bare,
of all that subsists
on two-dimensional air.
not cage or key
but necessary of life’s
unending expression
of itself, eternity.
⨀ϟᛒ
beneath the world
wide webbing of
regurgitated words,
the boundlessness
our essence knows
only to be—
gasping on vividity,
bursting into tactility,
snagging its skin
raw and swaying
with the intensity
of it all—
formlessness
made manifest
irrevocably
captivated with
each and every
shape it takes.