How to: Not feel. Part 1

If I were one for easy ways,

I'd tell you 

Mundane things, real things

That are of this world. 

I'd urge you to watch dervishes of your blood

Whirl in slomo

Till there was nothing to whirl in

Till your eyes close and couldn't 

But I fancy myself a poet. 

So I'll tell you stories

Of trembling taupe tails 

Writhing without context, 

Of rabbit-foot returns. 

I'd recommend grand things, 

Dramatic things that happen

Contained in the burst of a moment.

I'd tell you

Let go of a hand you want to hold,

Watch its perfection die

I'd say 

Plunder a little, tear something: 

A painting, a mouth, a silent wish. 

I could teach you

To write in a book with no lines

Word after word after word;

Black ink sculpting paper to life.

If I were kind, I'd warn you

There's nowhere to run after that:

Can you not hear mocking laughter

Of pages you've birthed?

Can you not hear the pangs

Of those you haven't?

Once you're done writing,

Pick up a carnation,

A jasmine, if you wish

Or a sunflower 

If you are particular about colour

(You're done for already, if you are.)

Destroy it gently 

In a poem, a story, a painting, a book.

There you've done two things:

1. Worn time like a pearl necklace

Unmoving, near-perfect, disorienting

2. Crucified a flower

In eternity, on a page, between words

Or brushstrokes

I dare you to feel after this. 

I dare you to not. 

*****