// dysmorphia //

watersea

The inverted hollow in your disloyal eyes, dry plum wine soaked into cream linen flowing from tables left empty in gilded ballrooms, the staleness of your vacant mouth even after all this time, smoking and keeping your perverse thoughts to yourself. As you slide your fingers along my jaw, those snow white glimpses of my pale flesh still flutter in a desolate place that has curled itself inside my ribs for protection. Half my heart is a leather bound journal burning under a stack of wooden tombs, orgasmic oceans lapping at angel corpses on Jupiter.

We move like a headless dance without hands without eyes, stimulate, arouse like secrets traded and kept in steel drawers with the keys locked inside. All is static, penetrating. Undressing in silence, the cruel pace of the city is mute as I watch for the stars through tall windows, touching myself to the coming dark.

I am after, before, within all of it as trembling limbs, shards of my lifeless body in the fibers of that lace trimmed linen, traces of my voice on the lips you use to speak the words I could never let escape from my throat. You remember me because I line my eyes in charcoal even on the good days. The things that haunt you are never the things you can bury. It’s what is just out of reach that mauls you, just beyond the thin veil of the tolerance of what is no longer possible, those are the phantoms you keep in the chamber of the blood.

Those tremors, that pain, that hurt, that ache which stabs at the air in vain, that is the love story which must be written in the euphoric journals of the clandestine prophets, in the war torn diaries of the chariot gods.

We are not entirely of this world. In a flickering place within our wandering souls, inside a layer of resonance where even the cold stillness of the moon widens in the face of our marked vigilance, we know it. We can taste the almost imperceptible distance between the surface and what grows beneath; it fascinates the parts of us that would teach us everything we want to know if we would just listen with everything we have.

Union, creation, deliverance, freedom, these are the strange intricacies of true devotion. This is what it is to cherish, to attend to the calling, dissatisfied, hungry, uncertain. To fall into our own arms and breath from the depths of who we are far beyond what they’ve told us we owe them.

You stand naked against my back, I open my mouth and curse the petals falling in lush cascades across my tongue. This is what it is to bleed, even the piercing of thorns is the thrust of ecstasy.

Careful how you touch me, love, nothing about this will ever be enough.

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19 thoughts on “// dysmorphia //

  1. Ward Clever

    Dear Allison… had you only posted but a single sentence ‘Half my heart is a leather bound journal burning under a stack of wooden tombs, orgasmic oceans lapping at angel corpses on Jupiter.’, it would have comprised a rich, full and complex panorama of emotions, tastes and colors all on its own. I marvel at the depth to which you write, the dedication and devotion you pour into it, and the continual joining of seemingly disparate concepts into a cohesive puzzle box that looks just like the most beautiful painting ever created. I truly appreciate your talent and craft. I would only hope that the perpetual subject of your poetry realizes and values the electricity flowing from your words.

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    1. Allison Marie Post author

      Dear Ward, I am overjoyed to have your beautiful comment and most of all your connection. I absolutely ADORE the way you speak about how my writing affects you, collects you, it is everything I dream of doing with the words that seem to consume me to the brink. I’m tucking this in my heart all day: “. . .the continual joining of seemingly disparate concepts into a cohesive puzzle box that looks just like the most beautiful painting ever created.” This literally brought tears to my eyes. I am humbled greatly, just to know the words offer you a deep space, an intimate opening within where you allow yourself to become part of the unfolding, nothing could bring me closer to sheer bliss. Thank you. With all that I have, I thank you for letting these words inside. I treasure it.

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      1. Ward Clever

        I am happy to have touched you and brought you joy. The same that you have brought me with your mosaic of beautiful writing. I am so thankful, too, for the connection. It is so meaningful and appreciated.

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  2. Ward Clever

    Dear Allison (I am not sure if my previous comment posted) – Had you only included the single sentence “Half my heart is a leather bound journal burning under a stack of wooden tombs, orgasmic oceans lapping at angel corpses on Jupiter.” it would have been a post rich, complex and full of depth. I appreciate the devotion and dedication you pour into your craft, and I hope the perpetual subject of your poems fully realizes and values the talent and magic of your words.

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  3. Swarn Gill

    This piece filled me with imagery that was vapid and emotionless. That’s not to say that I felt no emotion reading it. It feels like there is so much emptiness right now, and I feel sickened and raw. The first half of your poem definitely evoked that in me. It’s hard not to despair when love is absent. Right now there is lust without the desire to truly connect, there is excess without the desire to share, there is anger without the desire for peace. We are not feeling emotions in their complexity, but only at the surface.

    In the last half you seem to remind about devotion and what it truly means. It is the iceberg, seen and ominous, but most of it remains hidden from our sight. True devotion is to love something so completely and obsessively while at the same time humbling yourself because what you love is some bigger than you yourself. Whether a higher power, or just lofty ideals that bring joy to all. This to me is the strange intricacies you speak of. Love, while a singular word, must encompass a greater depth than the small ways in which most of us apply it in our lives.

    My dear friend. I do not know what similarities we share, but what I like about you is that even in despair you are looking for a way out and for hope, and that is how I am too. Maybe this is what draws me to your poetry. 🙂 At the very least this is what has drawn me into this poem. 🙂

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    1. Allison Marie Post author

      Thank you, thank you endless, dear Swarn, for your beautiful, thoughtful and thought provoking comment. As always, I adore hearing how the words have affected you. It is ever interesting to me. I love what you say about “lust without the desire to connect” not because I think this is good or bad but because I feel you are son intimately and intricately aware of this. As I thought about what you have said here, and what I have written, I happened upon a quote by Rilke that touched me deeply. “. . . and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life: in understanding as in creating.”

      One of the things I mourn daily is what appears to be the dying off of a collective ability to understand, to desire to understand. How quickly we jump over things, we don’t take the time to ponder, to think, to process, to observe, to reserve judgment for a time in order to be certain of where we are in preparation for where we are headed.

      I hope that makes sense. I hope you know how touched I am by your willingness to spend time here and to explore your inner self as the words move through you. I am so grateful, dear friend. You are a gift, a treasure. I send you so much love. ❤

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      1. Swarn Gill

        Thank you Allison for your kind compliments. I like the fact that the feelings your poetry elicits helps us both explore further and leads to engaging conversation. And I know exactly what you mean. That beautiful quote says it all. As with your poetry I use patience and take time to ponder and it always leads to more. I’ll admit that sometimes my initial reaction to your poetry is one where I feel like I cannot connect… But through patience your words wind their way through me like advancing fog through the brambles. It’s a wonderful feeling to let things seep as opposed to just expecting everything smack into you. We are in too much of a rush. We’ve forgotten that some things happen slowly and we’d best remember those things too.

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      2. Allison Marie Post author

        It is a lovely thing, art, expression, delicate exploration of the heart and mind of another. I feel blessed, friend. And I so appreciate that you say sometimes your initial reaction is one where it is tricky to connect. In a way, I feel glad for that. I know my style is not for everyone, and maybe even not for most, as I enjoy a more intricate way of exploring the inner landscape without overtly coming out with a thing. In almost every area of this our over productive cookie-cutter culture we kill too much of the strangeness, the wonder, the beauty of an uncut thing. We talk “about” spirituality but we so rarely speak FROM it, from that liquid place, from the inner voice which has no language except feeling, depth. I’m so thrilled you appreciate the fine-ness of that, of the seeping. I know my way of writing turns some people away but I have found, as with beautiful you, that those who stay believe in something I believe in, even if we cannot pin it down and name it. And I could not be more ecstatic about that. I think that is everything I do this for. ❤

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      3. Swarn Gill

        In the end as long as what you write feels honest to who you are and what you want to express then I think that’s when it’s art. Your poems are a bit abstract. As a scientist I like my right angles and straight lines even though I know life isn’t like that. So your poetry challenges me to get in touch with the disorder and the chaos that lies deeper inside us where emotions mix and tumble like clothes in a dryer. 🙂 I am not sure I always understand things better after one of your poems but I feel more peaceful, like just accepting what is, and being okay with it.

        I agree completely with you when you say “we kill too much of the strangeness, the wonder, the beauty of an uncut thing. We talk “about” spirituality but we so rarely speak FROM it, from that liquid place, from the inner voice which has no language except feeling, depth”

        It’s really a shame, because in that place you speak of is where honesty lies. Sometimes it’s wonderful and full of light, and sometimes it’s dark and full of pain, but ignoring doesn’t let you truly feel the joy, or truly mend the hurts. And such journeys into those depths take time, and there in lies the patience we need that you spoke of early.

        I definitely don’t know if I can pin down what you believe, or maybe not even what I believe, but I’d rather not pin anything down, I’d rather be more unsettled, because we are dynamic and weren’t meant to be static. Figuring out all it the surest way to never grow and learn and that’s definitely not where I want to be. I suspect that it’s the same for you.

        As always Allison, thank you for sharing your heart and soul with us. ❤

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      4. Allison Marie Post author

        I do prefer the surreal, surrealism, something about the bizarre breaks me free of every cripple, every stranglehold. A way of attempting to give reality giant impossible wings for the grand pleasure of it. I believe in the magic of swimming in between the worlds. I find it absolutely delicious. 🙂

        Thank you, dear scientist, with your right angles and your openness to waves, and your incredibly poignant words: “Sometimes it’s wonderful and full of light, and sometimes it’s dark and full of pain, but ignoring doesn’t let you truly feel the joy, or truly mend the hurts.” I fall into these words with everything. THIS is what we need so desperately. We the world, we the broken ones, we the ones who only have each other. Blessings, friend. I wish you a warm and beautiful Thanksgiving. ❤

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      5. Swarn Gill

        I may not believe in God, but I do believe in being humble before the vast unknown. And isn’t that what God really is. Too many people think they are masters of the universe, and not as small and flawed as the rest of us. We are all brothers and sisters on this small planet in a tiny corner of the galaxy. It is a gift to exist, but not a right. We could all use a bit more gratitude as well. 🙂

        I often wonder if you speak verbally as poetically as you write in conversation. Or maybe you just swear like a sailor. lol Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Allison. I hope you are surrounded by as much love as possible. 🙂

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