Kingsley O’Bedlam is trying to translate the ineffable that exists within us and without us. The invisible weights that break our backs and bend us over the earth; the unintelligible, illogical force that compels us to go on; the footsteps; guided by the surgical hand of fate and the truth that our existence, our lives, are kitschier, poorly worded, out of context, inaccessible, and more fleeting than any artwork except for those that work, to endlessly reincarnate that truth. Its unpronounceable, untranslatable poetry, its resolute finity.
I can taste beneath covers
between sheets, on top of pillows
on breakfast tables, on couches, on
from my lips that were so recently thirsty
and on the tips of my fingers
I have acquired a taste for you