To Lacan

language is desire,
a calling,
the restless interpellation
of absences on the nights where
i dream of ashes
and blood,
sucking in dream sodden air
to fill the spaces of my heartbeats
where the lack is real
and heavy, the castration
of aortas, of ventricles and valves–
those storehouses of decades and
thin tendrils of memory
where i kept the voices of the dead,
the braille of fireflies,
the echoes of ancient
endless oceans

and the dreaming is desire
for the past to not be past,
for the future to not be past,
for the past to not be real,
for the real to not be dreamingβ€”
a web of absences
calling presences, a yearning
for words to name the things
i cannot name, to have
the things i cannot have,
to lose
the inevitable loss of all
that i have lost before and
will continue
to lose

this morning

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4 thoughts on “To Lacan

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