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some kind of love


(pre-face) in the beginning there was a word a word that sounded and felt largish i stared at it, i gathered it, i loathed it it was a synonym of you but it was her. it was spelled her


some kind of love: a collective of poems

(click eye to hear speak) by b borcoman


understand me, the goal of this is to proceed with careful to make her unsuspect of my movements i alert you of these possibilities as if you are watching, as if you can hear me.


there is something i should say i think about the idea of silence a lot. more specifically the entrance of sound in that silence. so as to create an echo. an echo of her as she drops a piece of cloth


in the face i look her and mouth to please fetch me my personhood. of course she is sleeping, though with violence i smirk back. i think about what it’s like to play a tape cassette until it falls broken. what the sounds we make sound like.


as in to speak first and understand second or rather to walk up a tree and when feeling its green to understand what down is. my fingertips, this air, with motion i place her hand upon my mouth and what if i leave it there


she says things regarding her own species. how the likelihood of walking up a pair of stairs is higher than walking down. or how the tilt angle of her head when she is making a suggestion is almost always the same. or when she smiles so often and then turns away.


like a bird that crashes itself into a window. that between area which is classified as private. the interim cavity. like a negative side placed next to a positive. as if boundaries and ropes have been put up. not just space rather this intimate distance.


so we open eyes at each other in total darkness and for a moment the separation of bodily apparatus. and then the seeing, the feeling as a feeling: how aloneness a recognition is


for me, it was mid-satisfaction and i was lying on my side attempting the correct position for absolute inquiry when i noticed my hands were something apart from me.


she was saying up is rather deceiving in that: how is a direction explained other than a finger pointing one way or another. a language, as in the one we might share, is so unnecessarily tossed aside. instead show me up with your motions


this is a test of her limits. i want to know how far she might exceed herself. to feel light and then be given heavy. to smile and go frown in such succession the mouth loses all direction.


similarly, i sit in a room for many hours and make this blinking sort of exercise and then invite her over to share my exultation at conquering the mechanics of face. she comes with a look of envy and says please stay me awhile.


i feel her features to make sure they are still hers. and they are, but my surroundings: how different it is to close the eyes and open them.


like the time i opened the dictionary to word and i thought that was the grandest experience and then i tried again and then i tried again and it still hasn’t happened. so i guess this constant search for a type of definition


as if an ideal existing within proper containment. as if waking up to the glass of a tall building and understanding its implications. what it might mean to pass through such a surface maybe better to have never known at all.


in this way i make face at her. with my eyelids tied and my lips all curled but nice. my teeth are shattered and pieced together. i look my best for her on purpose.


and then she says open up she says show me how to undo everything i make shudder sounds with my voice i am thinking about dimensions how they might be explained


also: sounds resembling silent movies in which sex is not being made i’m not certain if there is a correct sound but something similar to a cloud passing around a mountain or a breath trying to be kept in by a various mouth


a pause. a shifting silence. semi-flutter of wings. a build-up so minute in its increments like pulling string out of some cave.


or like her sitting on a lawn and a big school bus skids to a halt and no one is inside it is just this big thing that is making noise like screeching and she is silence. just spectating


this is what i’ve been meaning to talk about. the lapse of time and space occurring during the duration that immediately follows. after she says something and there is a moment of nothing. and afterness.


i would wish for her to walk forever backward so i could formulate the origin of her intercepts. where she reversed one way into another the intersplicion of a beginning to end


i would place my plastics around these indicies and call them possessions. i would take apart my insides so as to remake them.


i mean, if to hear is to somehow notice one’s self, what occurs in this episode without sound. do i render useless


do i walk around in intricacy just to find myself in the same position. and when my mouth moves is it only to hear.


(post-face) so there was her and now there is a memory of her. an incredible turn. she became something else. just you now. this slight change.


some kind of love  

a poetry.