A writer's bed

He draws a number on my page he colours in the numbers four and nine between white and black he draws my face his pen his hand taking a picture of me. I observe I see Me he draws lower what I watch and lingers at a place, you cannot see to gaze through out of me the words are impossible for what explodes in my navel from the string of what he draws pulling me towards him he touches he draws the shape of a part of me, or of what I wish him to see.

This place, this reader, my desire to be,

found and lost in me.

How to speak in poetry the non-poetry that ignites me?

hysteria or Female?

This, ob-session is not one to look after. It is a course which must be dissected to its no-thing.

Enjoy it and not, are both pleasurable for my terre of phantasy. Where, it withers, the leaves speak with hope.

When you forget to water it, its presence reminds you it is still alive, waiting or not waiting. In spite of you.

In spite of I, the Other's voices darken my wings of walking on the ground, I love to hover and the solitary ecstasy of the air

touching cheeks and lips through a yellow -leave impressed park at dark, the liberation de la livre, a script of my own.

The numbers of "my" are dangerous in signifying the chances of the Death of the Author. But I, remain here away from I, she

is beautiful, etherial, true and unbound by the black symbols that surround me. Forever alive, beyond the Real that I pretend to speak.