What does it mean to be human?



 What does it mean to be human?! 







Photos: Ramona Aristide




drink your tea it gets cold 

I am human, therefore  

I am a fragile spiderweb in the murky corners of my mind.  I float and sink in indeterminacy  

Like the iridescent tentacles of a jellyfish  

I glow in the semidarkness of my sea 

But first, drink your tea  

My sur/face is carved with a small entry 

occluded by the humming of a lost language,  

I am layers of m/loss liquid absences-sentences I am trapped in this hollowed-out mind 

the fabric of my body is soft and permeable when fissured. 

But first, drink your tea  

I play uncertainty 

on the staves of time  

on the spreadsheet of tasks  

                                           play life and ask 

What does it mean to be homo sapiens?  

I am both emptied, and filled with obscurity 

But first, drink your tea  

Human is incongruity in shape and meaning I say  human is also something lost on the way  

a slip of the tongue, a web of thoughts and alien encounters pro/tube/rances e/missions and... s/hells  

something repetitive of a 3D crystalline structure  

yet a fracture.  


But first, drink your tea  

How beautiful it is to be contained yet be free  

I burn and burn and burn and every piece of me is  

flakes of flashy flesh, flashes made of wood ashes  

How beautiful it is just to be  

human tog/ether when you hold me,  

But first, drink your cold it gets tea. 







Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  Birds are falling   I don't know where this night comes from A hole in the tissue. A crack where it leaks Oily and crunchy. A celebration. We parasitize Under its breasts full of black milk. Paul Celan said 'language is my country'.   I speak four languages but I am a stranger . A beautiful immigrant you can play with. A doll endlessly repeating   the same words. 'Mama' 'mama' 'mama'.   In my genetic code So many words entrenched (why do I fear them?) I look through a magnifying glass. I zoom and cut up. They retract. Such a tremendous surgery. I proceed with a delicate operation. Words keep coming back from submarines, undergrounds, dark corridors.   Obli -gation Vio -lence On -going process Oblivion. There is an error. Irrepressible. Error. organic as water. You rather take my hand. We'll play chess on the edges of memory.   Every time I win, you cut words. Every time you win I cut words. My organs are be...
Read more

She still has time

Image
Gone were the days when she lived by herself, with hundreds of books and the rest of paraphernalia of another world, all jammed in 28 square meters. Uncharted, munificent territories to explore. Now she enters the empty room through a smoke screen and looks at the leftovers she took: a smooth toothbrush, small debris of toothpaste between the bristles, a worn-out blue dress. She thinks: What a jest, what a jest, and here I am. Terribly alone. Terrified, yet unflappable, flustered. Hands folded, dry skin, eczema on her neck, tired and lugubrious dark eyes . She looks at her phone: it is bed time, sets an alarm. Nothing unusual, she could rest and think, think and rest. In 7 hours, he’ll be here. She thinks: He’ll come. Open the door, open the fridge, open the window- so many things to turn on and open except me. I am a glacial figure, boreal as I am, magnetized by my solitude, I am pushing the limits of my absence. I forget what his voice sounds like. Honeyed when laying in my arms, app...
Read more

Beneath her skin

Image
Photo: Ramona Aristide - Michelle de rose Photography  Beneath her skin-kinships-ships Still     so much             Stillness. layers of s i l e n c e building up.  bees  buzzing collect honey from the b l o o d   Beneath her skin war words swords.   In the mirror, two fluid bodies      collide and calibrate ebbing in the distance       of her eyes ice eyes on and  o f f.   We are bodies changing position         like floating letters- anagrams of flesh   I listen to her smell, as it falls and lingers on her flesh, for a while.   While peeling the pulpy orange squeezing a sticky juice and nails carving a poem in her skin.   I could stretch the w o r d s  like l e g s       Wanderlust between the cora...
Read more