a heart, like any other object, remains divided at its core

so that it is torn in reaching to another

between what it grasps and what it cannot but fail to secure;

the recessions into singularity, each discreet

partition and the potent void that no gesture, name or position

could ever hope to exhaust.  and there is talk of

tearing veils, of abandonment of isolation in the couplings that we

say stand naked without illusions or words

leaving all such contingent connections behind to bloom the

hidden truth contained beyond our daily graceless

acting. we start with some seduction,

some orbit one around the other, unable to discern the body

from the satellite or the rupture from the debris.

but inclinations and enumerations, some banal accountancy

is always lodged in the mind that wanders through the

useless streets ready to make allowances for premeditated

but unknown said decisions and all hidden yearnings.

remembrances: airports arrivals and departure gates,

long drives through mountains, panic attacks and supermarkets,

walking in the hills, shopping in the town and drinking

and arguing and everything suddenly recriminations.

a bipolarity;

a splitting through the centre of it, from start to finish

embroidered like an virgin’s robes when her lover

waits impatient at her door. a sudden learning and forgetting,

a giving forth and a withholding, two guilty parties

washing one another clean or making the attempt. certainly alive,

far too alive as to become terrifying; the vertigo

of flight straight into the silent kernal that when all is subtracted

still remains. guarded sometimes

and yet freely given.


there is always a violence to this, always

something of the warring factions, to see into

the depths by destroying the most private architecture.

and when its finished, or lingers on, or remains in some neutrality

condemning such distinctions, neither dark nor light

but certainly nothing in between,

it is like the smoke clears from the

battle grounds, previously so vibrant

with searchlights and wonderful pyrotechnics, a war in which

every fatality remains unharmed

and immortal,

there is still as with any other

battleground the wastes, the craters,

the scarring and the scorching, the fallen and the wounded

and even the triumphant. each party

stands, and within each party a multitude

of factions, none certain of who is lost and who is victor,

almost certain that no such calculation

can make sense, that sense itself

is lost.

and standing upon that ground,

gazing in all directions,

knowing something has been undone and

come apart,

knowing that one cannot stay here

but unsure of where to walk to,

or who with, just

letting the sky open like a poisoned mouth

feeling oneself secure inside it, waiting to be swallowed,

to be dissolved

and lain upon the altar of this place of scission.

no questions poised for asking;

no answers left to come.


2 Responses to “scission”

  1. A number of personal images came to mind while reading you poem…some more painful than others…but most involved with the process of scission. Thanks for this post.

  2. 2 dronemodule

    It was a difficult one to write. As ever, thanks for all your comments.

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