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By Lorelei Bacht
A body plus, plus, plus.
A body made from dirt and debris, grime.
A body made it home with you, and your wife knows.
A body picture of the sky, where hell is going well.
A body of work to get back to the idea, essence of what I am.
A body book of poetry about the affair that you have been using in your quest for meaning.
A body of errors and omissions, red convertible cars to get back to the beach - one hopes.
A body part of the hills of my own experience and projections.
A body broken beyond the scope of this work.
A body has nothing to say. Nothing is my personal fault. I did not ask for my body.
My body is a poem.
My body is not available on this device. It is located approximately far from you.
My body is the only way to ensure that I be a little more complex than the intended recipient.
My body was told to hold the family together - prevent it from falling apart.
My body is featured in the same thing that happened to the girl who gets all the limelight.
My body says that the children were a reply to a longing long gone. Now what?
My body does not recognise any point in time during which the affair was conducted.
My body has nothing to do with the idea of what you want me to do.
My body has a right to hair - I care not about what you think.
Body bits. Body bites.
Body bits. Body bites. Lost marbles, snail corals, white bones of my own experience. Where am I? Where am I right?
Bodies of water, sewer systems of equations and inequalities. I suspect that you are not alone in the morning - I am not interested.
Body massage centres for men who lost their lives, power, job. Lives suspended for a while: she tries to climb onto the swing of things.
Body is a very small world. Bodily functions of the hills: unknown. The world has gone sour-cream-sour-tart-soup.
Bodies bleeding from the outside for a long time, attempting to remember to give absolutely none of me to you.
Did you get my message?
Nostalgia as a form of sudden death: I have been using this kind of art myself. The children too: they have been mapping out the geometry of the affair, the impact on the family. We ask what remains of him - his trousers, pair of glasses: Why are you still here? Was it the best you could do, to consider leaving us? Your heart, then: we will send it back to the affair partner and make sure she receives this communication.
Bodies. It is a matter of fact that they were that in the morning. He was, she was - and I was not. Blood clots in our future - uncertain about our husband, father: he is well with you and your chants, you claim. We send you songs of praise for writing poems about your experience with the body that made us happen. Made us full stop.
You depart/arrive at the moment when mom is not completely sure how to make sure that she does have a right to poetry and prose. // A rose. A pause. // Hearts and minds of the hillside: your hands wide open and honest at last. Alas, I had to be rushed to the beach, and stay there for a while. Since then I have tried to keep in touch with you from the deep bottom of the sky. Did you get my message?