september, treat me less harsher than may
(a virtual verse)

She frowned when May said push to start.

Usually moving things like months have

an idea of itself,

sizeable, some sum seeable in its palms. 

Now not only did May say !!push to start!!       It scattered out all the keys, black and white, said score!

Video games                        (cue its music)

say push to start because something

like beginnings, like death interrupts.

Except that the fifth month,
hard-hitt(er), beginner of second quarter could not be damned for heads up… & even software sometimes fail, but this leaves no prior indication

of life lines left.

                Worm-like, as in soil, she stays cooking inedibles and embalming in her own blood. Almost ghostly, vapourous and without flesh.

The camera makes something and wants to call it real.

Isn't living about all these seemingly immaterial things anyway--

(i) how the eyes take in (ii) what is taken in (iii) skin crawls, skin sprites, skin spills, sealed sensations (iv) group-ons, orgies, comradery (v) the pure action of indifference turning into love. That’s what made photographing

                these (ii) what(s) and adding noise to them bearable for the serial breath
of a life installed.

May is May
May is a(part) from life.
Life can be May, however, May is not life.

So surely

                        May, a fragmented

cemetery (say symmetry), unwound her,

                     with its scattering of keys said score!

June, on an inflatable bed, with all the flush said appear!

July, with prickly skin, curious flowers, said befriend time that is not profound.

August, a pouch of blocked escape, said drop all that singular road rage, babe.

September comes now, open at its limit. She plasters the photographs on a wall
                   instead of burning them

she duplicates them, gathers more, knits them into memory, mails them

with a note:

Who knows?

But her scattering of a heart knows, it is the same prayer, if not more than this one:

once and forever please spare me  the propensity of a life  that makes me disappear over time into the invisible babels in myself.
make me easy eggs over time

I want to wait, observe and love all the organs that do so breathe
that make breaths happen.

Virtual Verse: Text and Images by Olakiitan Adeola.

Olákìítán Adéolá is a trans*themme poet, artist and curator living and working in spirals & reversals🌊