some where along the
lines i rest between
your tongues,
plant dances
where perfume meets
your smell
of a skin of a tongue
i fall i slip
in the sleep of your
tongue
around my languages
please fold your time
slowly near me
unfixing, dislocating,
disowning
the dances-words-
thoughts-tongues borrowers
slid swords into words
into libraries
owing to one another
all the time
borrowing words-
thoughts as we are
dances, re-flexing our
muscle tones
this language is not
mine
i bit my tongue, which
is not mine
it’s a mother’s language
says
how i love the mutual
indebtedness that is not
about paying one
another back, but about
enjoying that dependance, listening
to the ghosts –our
proteXtions– in the
paddings, quilts, of our
shady studies
jumping off board
surfing sofas, texts,
annotations and their
arrangements as many
vehicles, conveyors of
senses –as in senses
leaving the littorals
our literal translations
leaving the ship [a
pause for the word ship.
The break it asks to
think of a ship.]
this language is not
mine
it’s motherless
I bit my tongue
i bite your tongue
it’s a mother’s
language says
hay-feverish, jay-
feverishly tip-tonguing,
the glitchiness unfolds
as if declining
language itself and what
evidence it contains
tongue inside out,
still firmly around and
smiling at the many
years since the caress
a voice leaks down
under my feet
drips in reverse in my
mouth and sings no
songs in my arms
no thing that comes out
of my mouths, fingers,
keyboard is mine
the things that sit under
the folded seats of
theatre venues - les
strapontins de nos
allées et venues au
théâtre
striking a text in
brushed aside
footnotes, cultivating
cult notes
resting in forces that
already exist
listening to the voices
trickling down the
inside of my clothes, my
bed-sheet the inside of
my arms
the smell of wet pepper
corns lightly crushed,
rising from the bed in the
light splash. this
smell
tongue inside out,
firmly around and
smiling at the many
years since the caress
and the voices that
don’t stop falling
bumping on to familiar
patterns on the floor,
skirting the old stain
taking a collection of
words in their wake
they leak down under
my feet, drip in reverse
in my mouth
and sing no songs in
my arms
written in the company of Anne Boyer, Paula Caspão, Avery F. Gordon, Mirene Arsanios, Valentina Desideri, Fred Moten, Laura Vazquez & many others.