Poppy Dillon

1)
I have tried all my life for honesty
When to talk
When to listen
When to love
When to hide
Equipped with every tool necessary
Pen to pad
Laryngeal vibration and lip pulsations
I want to give you a present
I'll hand words to businessmen and prostitutes and buskers
And newsagent workers
Wrapped up in chocolate bars
Like a cotton farmer holding out twentysomething years of harvest
2)
But wait
When I close my eyes I can see hovering lights which shudder and
swayfasterthanIcancomprehendasmypupilsquiverlikeuntrainedballetdancersindesperation
Deprived of mental stimulation
If I sat blindfolded in a room of white noise for long enough
My brain would start feeding itself through hallucinations
I is not autonomous
I is not present in its skin
It thinks
It thinks
Through conceptualisations
Constrained
Its mental trails are pre-ordained
And even its lips
That can follow a complex choreography designed by its
Partner tongue
Follow a phonetic handbook
A categorical vocabulary engrained and laid down by country scarred and bloodied by its history
Even if it were possible for us to crack our skulls
And merge our brains into one every time we hold our foreheads together in silence
Semantic domains forged individually are blind
And could never know the swamp they're wading through to reach each other
The truth is we all speak a different kind of language
3)
Through practicing the silent meditation of respiration
I can now close my eyes without thinking I'm alone
Instead of grasping with blindfingers
I retract them into my hands
That have been giving birth to galaxies behind my back
Mind is planetary
Removed from tectonic personality
It is no longer necessary to understand anyone entirely
It is no longer necessary to scratch ourselves until we bleed repentance for all our
Faults in expression
I want to give you a present
Wrapped in-security in-stability
Something to keep away nighttime fears of drafts blowing
Endless blank pages through nervous typewriters
Hold a finger out to a baby for it to crush into dust with all the weight of its newness and uncertainty
4)
Life is kind of like something between a fraction with the denominator zero and the square root of minus one

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