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Geography For The Blind And Mad

It seemed so simple:

the wooden jetty became a supernova

suspended deliciously in unexplored space,

my neck arched

my feet falling

into galaxies below

as we rocketed upwards

into the sea.

The wind blew softly

against an untouched place

behind my ears

as we breathed in the luminance

of a city skyline

from a parallel universe.

We both agreed that nothing looked the same.

Giant rounded landmarks,

planate, elongated, grown further away

and with them the world that we knew:

the reality keeping the stars

from the sea, keeping

your breath

from my lips.

Floating in space, reversing

gravity, trying to tame

the phenomenal


the art that drew us together

when combined with sun-warmed rock

against my belly, and

a smile I thought I saw through

half-closed eyes, before

I forced my heart to

look away.

I know why we’re here,

propelled in parallel

delight beneath a prussian cloud

of sea, the stars

a short descent through

gravity, my sense

crashing wildly against

the rocks:

it’s almost like kissing, you see.

And then, later on, I looked on stunned

as you trapped the air in my lungs.

A light show of your bravery

fell upwards from the salty vapour

of soft sensations, as brutal as the smash of blood

and bone against wet sandstone.

Just like that

you felt yourself crumble

in my wet, outstretched palm,

as I stroked you softly

and suffocated you

in my fist.

I flicked

my slender wrist

and threw you into

the upright milky way:

reality returned to us,

a garish fluorescence

in an empty



You blinked and winced,

perhaps to push back tears.

You didn’t,

you couldn’t hear it:

the wild beat of my pulse

screaming between screaming breasts

or the absence you left

when you cast your eyes


You didn’t,

you couldn’t see it:

the boomerang of words (your words)

that flew from my grasp

and through the damned,

impenetrable space

of my inadequacy

to rise (returned)

in my soul,

a thousand imagined moments I cannot reach for


the touch of your hair as it falls against

my cheek, your palm against

the heat of my neck, or kneaded

(needed) in between my fingers

as I nuzzle into

the geography of you,

without a map nor plan, nor the tiniest

hope or misconstrued belief

of navigating my way through

and out unscathed, the same person

I went in.

Authors note: This poem was written by a 21 year old version of me, who liked to fall in love on lighthouses, staring upside down into the oceanic firmament below and galaxy of ocean above, with beautiful, creative, sensitive beings, full of emotion, mystery and magic, reflecting my own unfolding….

Of course, none of that interests me in the slightest anymore….





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