my only lies are in state. there’s nothing else now the ships have left. i have certifications for every pose and position, documentations for a muscle substantiated, a con. another muscle memorialised in spirit. all my glory is in my agony. this bed is testimony. it’s legal officer i swear. it’s legal. this pill dotes on me, all spoilt devotion. anti, what is my agony to you? why untruth here at all pro stratic? all yesterday’s wages have been undressed and im naked as a shipyard. an oceanic chapel of love, unbending as a kiss, warm as a spine, awash with yesterday’s sangkrealean cargo. all signed for. naked as a candlemass. naked as a lesser feast solemnising buccae vertebrae and pizzle. shipping forecast’s good next week; not a cloud in sight. if i weren’t a lie, i might go sailing
—
a brief update: i have been very unwell for the past few months. it may be fibro, it may be something else. diagnosis is slow.
this poem takes the place of a longer more direct piece on pain and spiritual ugliness in/against Le Morte D’Arthur that i will probably never write. i am writing more than ever, at least in the past five years, but finishing just as little. but hopefully i will have more to tease on here over the next few months.
until then, if you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a coffee via kofi: https://ko-fi.com/ignatz_maria