She mentioned prayer in the Øilslick.xxx ZipperPoems

by aksania xenogrette

14:54:24 -0700 {excerpt}

Last night I
felt like I was loosing my mind.  
In my dream you came
over and wanted to take pictures of my artwork.  I
started arranging all my stuff for timelapse photos
of my hands winding threads and taping  and tying
knots.  We also photoed the wind-up bunny atop that hyacinth
elephant we were 
making on the vega trampoline.
The nite
before I stayed up making collages.  So, at 3pm, I
started making mobile sculptures from thread and
wire and odd shiny objects an images:  Later, I took
my jumper and started winding it into a doll, into a
dress, with tape and saftey pins.  By late in the
morning, I had designed hundreds of dresses in
miniature,  i felt I was conjuring a xxxxx with 
damselfly code, like the wings you told me about where
we travel back from 2017, when 
there was 
more time and peace.  We transplant helix° splices and 
shoot back to meet our former selves, zip the
scrolls, and save the world. Then you said spin 
so I twisted my jumper over and 
over in 
endless folds like lips, like vaginas, like 
seacreatures.  I felt like 1137 evil you  was speaking to
me in the folds. You took on the feel of a real body... in this
etherial kind of way  I could glimpse your  features
in the fabric.  At times, my mind didn't know what
my fingers were doing.  Breasts and bras, and
fabulous mercury gowns.  I kept thinking if if could
just stick the final pin, time would come unglued. 
Instead I stuck my fingers over and over again
and bled floral patterns in the fabric turned into tiny tiny
future drawings, magenta paisleys in the margins 
of notebooks, snapshots of facial expressions that
surprised at every fold.  Flowers that turn into
tameless thoughts, disembodied from words or syntax.
Later on it felt more sinister.  At some point 
even evil you vanished left to leave
the voice now
changed into to the voice that speaks
discouragement... the voice of fear and obfuscation.
Evil wins when you abandon vital hope.  Look at
every sad face in the world.  They have
surrendered their hope, and become shells.  Anyway,
the faces in the folds began to look more and
more like hobgoblins.  The feeling usurped. 
The voice sounded very old, like a vizier from
arabia zed, sands and subtlety.  Some of the pins came
undone.  My hands felt like arthritic pit bull jaws.
The pins seemed to disappear into the impossible
curves of my jumper.  I remember thinking for hours
that I should stop for one second to have a
cigarette.  i was held captive.  The fearless dream 
turned spooky.  By the time I gave up, it was 4am. 
I put the final form of a robed desert wanderer voluptuously
seated in meditation into a drawer, feeling sad.  I
didn't want to shut her in, I was worried she would cast
spells on me, so I whipstitched
my fingers into 
her hands.  
I gave her a hood and a cloak
to keep out the
sand.  The her final form 
developed. I stopped worrying so much.  I folded my
love for you back into the fabric.  She looked more like an
old old babushka, a timeless
granny.  I took some pills and laid down in bed.  I
thought about the time.  I missed
the shot,
the sunrise, all focus.  I wondered if 
happened for a moment, so I checked in on her.  I took
her out of the drawer and put her on the table because
whatever she is, She needn't sulk such volatile
thoughts in a locked box. 
I thought about the folds of the dress, the folds of 
my thoughts.  She mentioned prayer in the 
Øilslick.xxx ZipperPoems.  I pray sometimes 
in the mornings when I'm frayed
frazzled.  It's strange.  I live 
in this bitter 
beautiful world.  I do everything that everyone
tells you not to do.  But I know god loves me and 
understands me.  I'm a creation, like the doll.  Some people 
never get to
feel that boundless joy of believing something,
without needing to know.  I've led an impossible
life.  I've seen things, survived things.  My
prayers get answered all the time. The only
reason I'm still around is because all I do is love, even
when things go black.  Even then, the earth is unusually
pretty, sometimes when I get to make people smile or feel
less isolated.  There are still dark places where you can
hate yourself, the transceivers. not the voice 
in your throat. 

There's this thing called the admonition of Paul. 

It goes,  We believe all
things, we hope all things, we have endured many
things, and hope to be able to endure all things. 
If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good
report, or praiseworthy, we seek after these these

i seek after you my love 
i remain always yours,

Aksania Xenogrette 

13/07/2017 sent via SpriteKite