by tommy wyatt blake
after nat raum
i don’t know who needs to hear this, but there’s not a single star alignment that subsumes the wholeness of me, it chooses to pierce through a thoracic flash of memory—the years so romantic, they collect in pangs of mood my body wants to lose. i won’t worry something will soon be in retrograde, i blame the moon moving out of the way. and the trick is, i don’t want to live like this anymore, where i am levitating out of frame and everything that i am is split between stasis and static. i want to full dark, no stars on what no longer serves me. i want to remember everything. i want to live where time parts from the praxis of existence, and there’s sparks in my skin. where the future wanes with dawn, and the concept of anything linear glittercrashes in a fiery yellow, the sunken sun flickering through to when i want it all, i want it loud.
tommy wyatt blake (he/they) is the jester of popular culture and poet laureate of timefuckery. he’s the author of FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!; Mutually Assured Destruction; DITCHLAPSE / [REALLY AFRAID]; So, Who’s Courage?; Trick Mirror or Your Computer Screen; and others. they are currently synthesizing digital archives, space voids, and confines of the body.
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