Last night, I closed a fist
around my own loneliness,
clamped hard til I could hear
the little angel in me cry, winging
towards an undoneness so raw it tastes
of flesh, still. This morning is a mutiny of
Blankets too soft on skin that wants too much
to be hurt, to be pressed kneedown into the frost
and made sing its oldest criminalities – how I want
too much and always not enough, how I lie and lie upon
the bruised bed of my own mistellings, making the thriving
tree smoulder, bloodying the infant’s unmarked face. This is
how my body wants to be wanted, on instinct and against good
thought. This is the orchardery in which I pluck myself, fine hair
by fine hair from between the juncture of my thighs, darkly-coloured
from chafing, from an accumulation of all my concentrated wants. I want –
Scissoring in the Tropics
a fist / around my own loneliness
"Korpus", by Wolfgang Rempfer
Photographed by Matthias Schleifer