How much of me is my body? (Braindump Poem #3)


He looked like a superhero

without the mask,

all white and stony stern

with a whip in his eyes.

He held me but he

wouldn’t know

how I kissed the secret

on his flesh: cwtch.

I could hide in his shirt’s long shadow

unzip my crusted eyes

with the gag of his scent

silencing my skin.


How much of me is my body?


Something new, electric

buzzed to life as synapses

kissed. Eureka!

moaned the monster

at the mirror.

I could become

the paint that rings around

the eye,

the spokes that peer out from

the heart,

the dye that bleeds on

the bathroom floor.


How much of me is my body?



It latched like a

small child would,

rode the world on

my spinal cord,

giggling with its

teeth like hands

clutching my eyes.

I could melt away

with that moment,

seep into the cracks

of the rocking earth

under my empty shoes.


How much of me is my body?


And here we have

enshrined a blob

in a blobbier container.

Its goopy transcendence

can teach and mend us

like all sound-wounds can.

I could condemn my eyes

to sentences, dislocate

them, roll them like dung

balls into someone

else’s skull, warm them

‘til they fall apart like questions.


How much

of me is

my body?

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