After J Regier's The Dangerous Part of Sleep is the Afternoon, a bit of self-rewording off yesterday's post, & a ref to Anne Carson's Decreation.
Or she is the opened skeleton. The dangerous sleep caught cross-continental through cycles, REM, remote. Underfatigue, reasoning afternoon’s disparate, dislocational. She, the ululating, cuffed to decks and mopped her wet sloshed overboard. Linked back to mineral. Time longed or longing as she lounges in sleepchains with women along miles of vast breath fawning. Of cicatrice and scraw, of clicks and clichés, her torso separated on film is maw of language. The tidal cauchemardesque cobalt slipped under her. She would let her self float, here, hearing. She would buoy or anchor. Drag light, the sack of bones which become her. Wintered as blank. As frothed horizons. Wavelets letting blood or bled under seeping belljars centuries of belonging could not carry her back even in the green underworld of that dream to here, to disintegrate. Beam. Solid. Chalky. The morass of daring openings. Should she not nightly endure, displeasing, reason wracked out like coughs. Pestilence, parasites, pandemic of her release nightly upright. This ballast. That angled harkening. Siren dissection of ear and her lured lightly into the dawn’s illusive certainty. Now, to tag that, phalange, femur, thoracic cage cartilaginous structure which surrounds. Hull.