dialecstatic

one man’s flute is another man’s fumble. i am sick to death of listening. every road here needs changing, outrageous names, how quick we are to call a woman what she is to a pervert, a process, an empire. don’t ever call me mother, ma’am, i am not yours. i belong to love, ever hear of it over the leaf blower? ever hear of a broom? do you even feed birds?—nevermind the shit of it, the pre-dawn racket. you were dreaming nonsense anyway, can you name a feeling, or just four native grasses? call me manmade again.

dreamer, you're awake

welcome to hell world, dreamer. I knew you before. no, before this. all of it. this little life had another life, resurfaced in a different shape. born again, as they say. when I told the moon about us she was disappointed. I know you’re not giving up, I know you’ve just had enough my friend, not long lost. never lost. just long, braided into time. I will remember how you cried when I wrote you love poems, drunkenness in your voice. you’d say, you’re gunna be the end of me. dreamer, you’re awake. do what must be done: wash the clothes. rub your lover’s neck. cook the meatballs. take a bath. maybe my mother is right. maybe some small thing will succeed us, precious gem pulled from our core, more of us in this place. we’ll try again in another life when we are both cats.

one man’s flute is another man’s fumble. i am sick to death of listening. every road here needs changing, outrageous names, how quick we are to call a woman what she is to a pervert, a process, an empire. don’t ever call me mother, ma’am, i am not yours. i belong to love, ever hear of it over the leaf blower? ever hear of a broom? do you even feed birds?—nevermind the shit of it, the pre-dawn racket. you were dreaming nonsense anyway, can you name a feeling, or just four native grasses? call me manmade again.

Frida Kahlo, Girl with Death Mask (She plays alone), 1938