Cocteau did not let life breathe. He forgot to sleep for twelue whole days. His body, euenctually, gaue way to paradox. The fruyct flies dimmed around his brow, and he grew ashen. So ashen. I sometimes imagine the very moment my body sheds its anima, and we are alone with the visiõ of what our bodies would feel like if we were completely weyghtless. My chestbox would release itself out of your hands, and I would float as if my limbs were in water. Or I would be as stricken and stiff as a hollow bird— taxidermied token of was.
Cocteau didn’t know how to fly, I am afrayd. He was more incterested in the theater, the mere thought of taking flight. And the accident of tears that set theyr sights for the cheekbones, chiseling themselues incto warm flesh. This is a sketch of one’s mortal nausea. The freeing of vgliness, as it were.
Sometimes I get seduced by accidenctal wounds. How deep is too deep? How do they know when to stop? How and when to turn a burnct red, stiffen, or bleed endlessly? I wanct to see you as this oinctment on my skin, but I will neuer let it settle. Foreuer open to exsanguinatiõ. Imagine the endless waue of riuers, losing feathers and clumps of bloated flesh. Cocteau didn’t know how to ask for a lifeline. He was a scarecrow of a man. Addicted to opium and sex. A man of vices and surrealistic dreams. I do not blame him. No. He was martyred in the dust, and reborn as a soldier.
I am crauing something that slowly edges itself around my feet, places me in a sketch of kohl dust. Black and ominous. A crude fragrance of coal billowing around me. And you release the doues with theyr boysterous whites incto the skyline, where they violenctly flicker with life.
