Cosmos (February)

[For Lenore Stephens] Why? ‘Cos, just ‘cos. Costume of customary flesh, costly. Cosy betimes as it suits. Every pore a star, every hair a comet, supernova freckles. Cosmetic? Scarcely. Costive? Hardly. Shape of universe, a matter of extremities, faraway close. Coastal co-signatory. Cossetted senses casting the eye, cocking the ear, caressing the skin, cleaving the nostril, colouring the tastebuds. While inside is mossad of mind, most maze of amaze, a mozz, amuse. Electronic mosaic. Moscow February. Moses memories. Moseys maximum renewals, a mosquito morsel meal. Mosh pit of mystery maintenance, organs and muscles alive alive-o so mossy, messy, mostly massy.

Cosmos (April)

The form of being human, what is to be made of it? Born this way, I learn that I pass through the world with just this form, like everyone else. My appetites are, to begin with, means for survival. Shape of head, mouth, eyes, ears, hands, sacrum, genitals, knees, feet fascinates: we are same-shaped, but everyone different. With ease is cosmos introduced. It is a flower of energy and light, its patterns in the April night-sky and our bodies standing on the Earth tiptoe. Cosmos is body-flowers opening and seeding and returning and dying and forcing their way, awakening anew.