Desarcinate

Alienating oneself, creating isolation with borders, is not only about solitude, is not about hiding either. Is about finding portals that interlock the external world and the internal without any pathological implications to it. The feeling of being segregated makes you so self aware of the outside, you can only think of it. Makes you feel like you understand it, all the external things. Makes you feel like you’re compressing yourself into a particle that defies the external. Makes you feel space. The internal becomes the infinite route to the external. And time merges with space. The dimensions become blurry. When dripping out of borders, we coalesce.

Self portrait by Claude Cahun

Self portrait by Francesca Woodman

By Tim Walker

Guided by the ringing bells
in her voice
and the ghost
of her singing,
winding along the river
I came to see
the daughter of
flowing waters

Enthralled and seized
by the shinning silver,
couldn’t I tell
if I watched the moon
or her hair

Kissed with unfathomable beauty
the cascading smile
made the waters obey
River daughter but
mother of life
who whispered into the wind
enchanted light

Her eyes told me
secrets of the forest
I understood ancient mysteries
only to forget them
for her gaze
assaulted my memory

A hazy dream
lays in my head
pieces of her voice
I can only see
the river daughter
is now but just mist

However one secret
can I remember

The one
that her clear glow
magically engraved

The one she told me
not to utter
for it's hers only
to give away

- CCC

the strings in her back
played unheard songs
at distance,
and up close
only vibrations some could hear

she told the doctor
“there’s nothing wrong,
my back just has rhythm”
after the doctor told her
“you need to sit up straight”

-CCC

So many mindless orphans of life running around crowds. One sided freaks, everywhere, worried about nothing. Discombobulated debaters of worn out arguments.

People who don't remember where they've been are bound to make a fool out of themselves.

While succumbed in her slumber
She hears the squeak of the gate
Then tosses and turns on her shoulder
Slowly opens her eyes and focuss her gaze


Pauses on the night stand a dark figure
the “tink” and the “tumb” of falling gold
then closes her eyes fast to not look eager
faking her sleep while her arm lolled


The figure kept moving around the room
under the blanket a smile had set loose
looking at the silhouette that in the dark loomed
eyes half open, to look awake she refused


At last the silhouette approaches the bed
she convinces herself to be profoundly at rest
he folds down the sheets and kisses her head
wraps her in his arms warmer than a nest


No more fear, let’s go to bed
Dad is home, keep on at rest
She told this to herself as she laid her weary head
Starlight, moonlight, black veil at best

-CCC

I made this poem on Father's Day. And if you are ever wondering, yes, it's base on my childhood. It was a really nice feeling knowing my dad got home. I feel like this poem has a kid story kind of vibe. It's simple, it rhymes, is short, so I guess is something someone could read to their kids. I tried to remember all my genuine thoughts of the moment my dad got home so it could translate to something transparent and innocent.

The boat tosses side to side
I sit on the end of the row
Suddenly it collapses to the right
I fall directly into the glass

The screams wake me up

The curtains rise up
A tempestuous wind enters the room
Choking in my bed I lay
The doors shake

An earthquake
The curtains are flying
I can see the doorknobs shaking,
shining in the night

Nightmares are so different now

-CCC