• Toto

Salahi and I

Serpentine is the spine. These blacks, they melt marble on a calcite dream,

thins saliva to wet light, damp dark thins me into saliva (I am) stillness in graphite dream.

Resin this muslin skin, the Sufi bleeds a Sudanese smile,

hides it beneath translucent shadow. On this small cotton space, he might dream.

Tearing acres of touch, the grain of grey tones carry the scent of musk.

An oedipal or phallic blue makes mother wipe tears to teeth. This is not the right dream.

If I enamel you in earth would you crack the colour of bone? Soft my eyes to glass,

tissue my nerves to brittle. Sleep the surface of shade. Teach braille sight & dream.

Wake up on the cataracts of the Nile. Pour down on the inside of streams,

Swathed arabesque yellow. The cloth of the border exiles you to a Lucite dream.

The writer un-names themselves under the current of an artist. Veils of a narrow textile

twined in a nameless dance. The page, his cloth, this sheet - paralysed in a finite dream.


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