Day 21 (1)
No prompt
Kusamapoem
When my eyes are tired, I can confirm
the world
is made entirely of dots crammed
together-
polka and microbial, spawn and
pore
From a distance, everything blurs,
because the camera eye can't quite
define joy or despair
I think it might be a new view of
infinity,
this positioning and questioning of
mirrors,
a woman's view – zoom from the
telescopic
to the microscopic and tomorrow
and the next day
as the pattern makes us
Right now, we are considering the
microbes
as a virus so very very
little ,
the drops of oil on water, sliding
never mixed
the painted woman on a painted horse,
the explosion and the last tram in
Hiroshima still travels,
that is the relationship, that is the
mesh
between the patterned and the linear,
memory and amnesia, forgetting
what’s forgotten, colours primary,
as the pattern spins us
Slipping between the fields of vision
the same as when you rub your
eyes
with the heel of palm until it hurts
and all the suns’ great light is
pale,
the clotted powder on the
goddess’ face,
how we survive the concentrated
light, tracing the tenderness
of things,
things near in exquisite detail so
that
outside, hallucination flickers, quite
unreal
as unpattern unmakes us
Can we, of all these nightmares and
spilled makeup-
penicillin , constellation ,
fractal, amoebic
make of this, a microcosm -
poppyflowers in above skies seen
red dot red dot red dot yellow
backdrop?
Poppy seeds and spores your
tongue, its buds
breaking down the printer dpi for
copying
and all of this, made of this,
we repetition
replication beings will keep
dissolving as the same pattern remakes
us
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