We go dark in the light

Colour on the surface. I have lived colourful in the light

Splashed on to what looks like coloured me:

but not yet emptied;

It splashes on the body like a body in to water

with most fluid of me still to sun

Still to be made up in the loosening of the burgeon star

To radiate beyond the in between.

We wait until there is none of me left in that difference.

from Fire to Light

I am the fire that stops burning in the morning

In time for another day I will not see through

Rather the day of Time that sees through me

Empties me out, watered, passes through me

And spreads me well-lit across my emptiness

To be the night that by day will be clarified

A colder light which by Light is unrequired

Making me fire that will not burn into Light.

One cannot feel overly excited and overtly depressed in the same place at the same time

There is a migratory quality to all my qualities,

They go from north to south in and out of a seasonal

of their own hemi-spheric making

 

They transit hot and cold in their analogous differences

Pulling up the cover of the temperature seasons accordingly

Dragging me either side of a dislocated equator.

 

There is a temporary quality to all my qualities

They time difference east to west either side of a temporal

of their own mean-time making

 

They transfer night and day in their analogous differences

Pulling across the contrast of daylight to darkness accordingly

Throwing me any side of a timeless meridian.

 

These qualities of my qualities tell me

What time of the year I am in

What time of the day it is

In a worldplace of their own making

 

The world of my qualities separates to a geography that forecasts

According to its own climate

The world of my qualities keeps to a chronology that historicises

According to its own clockwork

 

There is this quality to my qualities

That might first rain in the morning

And then noon South in the sunshine.

III, masochist

The things that make me hate myself are complex and committed

They will always hate me, and I will always love them

They are all the people I know to be better than what I have done

All the things that are better than what I do

The uncertainty of what I do

My need for you

My therefore need to be and not to be my self-hating self.

I am left, rooted

On its way away

The leaving leaf leafs through the ontologies of a more wanting head

It gets as far as the head that temperatures at an even loss of heat

Very much south of the North that any birthing indicates,

It is a head that loses at a set question of growth and division

It is a head that will therefore not grow divided

Will always sunnyside there, of course

And its occupation will be not more than what it misses

A tree in its own forest

Not a forest in its own tree

It will not forest when it rains

This one waits for the rain.

Much better for the leaf that always leaves.

1.1 Difference revisited (from the perspective of a person)

I say that I will make the difference

Then I see the difference and I ex-claim the difference

And such a heavy announcement goes against the -mission itself

And the difference this makes cancels the one I said I would make

 

The difference I make is a phallus sea difference

Because fallacious me I do not make the difference

But difference is made through contrasts of phallic me

Ever since first ex-cited enough to announce the Sea of Cunt

 

I say that I am what I am, Sea of Cunt

But a phallus sea as great as that which this instead makes

Not only collapses the -mission but the big contra-dictor

And all his leftover seamantic love for the cunt he wish he were

 

So it cannot be me to succeed in such a trans-mission

What happens at the bottom of it if I am not dead yet

It gets as warm as leaves growing on the back of the head.

A leaf leaves if it has taken its time.

I am left, rooted.

A new surface which emerges from the right

Goes back down all the way round,

At first, it takes a year

But then it comes through any which season

The weather trying to make me loveable,

But culpable me to not always meaning it

Their mistake, of course.

I might forest when it rains.