AFTERLIFE, 2017

Anatomy of The Afterlife

I was born dead.

But then that death died. Where I reside, is the afterlife. Or perhaps, another death, which in time will meet its death.

In death, is a deepened life; a deepened living. I am awake in this life and asleep in the other, to awake in the next, and sleep, and awake. The other that yet is or that may never be. That all depends on what I make of this here; this now. While I’m here, I want to share with you what it has shared with me.

An exaltation of the senses. An unveiling of the eyes. That bodily rhythm; that Soul song. I hear it all.

I am awakened. (Walking outside of myself). To that gaze that compels the spirit; that births the spirit. That births the recognition of spirits. Spirits I have known; spirits I have been.

I know them when I meet Them. I am entrapped in the caress of The Knowing. I feel them. They make home from my skin.

I am haunted by hues of helpless humming. Humming to heal; humming to keep from breaking; humming from men trading love songs for isolation. They are at war with their sleep. You think you’ve met rot, but it is so far from the sort that stirs, ripening in their chest. Venoms feed their virtue. The tightened throats, stringing story-filled stares. And, it lingers.

To the words, I plead, 'feed me.' There is woman and there are words. Both are warm and winning. Memories permeate without permission. 'Are these mine?' I wonder. Many lives I live; many lives I've lived, no wonder.

I think I write poems, but it is the poems that write me. That right me.

I give seeds and in return, I am rewarded many. The harvest will be plenty. For the one who pours passion a full cup and gives none to pity. I resent the city. Those who run and think themselves ahead. They are more poisonous than the dead. I mean the dead who do not know they are dead. The dead who deepen their death with ignorance.

I resent the city. Its callous lights, its jealous buildings that rise in silent competition with the sky. The faux and the false. The man with skin the colour of rum. He pours into me, and yet I reject it. I resent it all.

And yet I love it. I need it, in mind and memory. We need it. We need it all. Everything.

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Anatomy of The Afterlife is the second installation to a series of essay-style poetic prose designed to explore, engage, and interrogate recurring themes of life, birth, and death. The visuals and corresponding words are my own.

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