feb. 14, 2020
samuel mignot

Write what you must, then walk away from it is

not the hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn, by any stretch,

only one of the hardest. Witness, then blindness—that’s a way

of putting it. To be clear, by blindness I mean the deepest

blue possible, good cotton, not silk, the blindfold.

- Carl Phillips

And if we swim down low

This pressure might go beneath the covers the cotton ceiling

And if we swim down low

This pressure might grow beneath city lights I’m wandering home

— King Krule

I have decided to write, obviously:

an inevitable mistake, probably.

Here, in this electronic concert, suffused,

I have selected, chosen,

the absolute agony of language—self-suspension

by the tongue.

                              Decided to process myself:

to be drawn again and again through

the wheel, the great gears

of language until every part of me is

nothing but its name and then nothing.

I have chosen,

    when confronted by the precise opposite:

    sound devoid of meaning, raw

    and loping, a shawl, the strong sailors

    arm that pulls us out of the river of our

    own, intense self-conciousness, out of language,

    into the beautiful sanctuary of self-

    annihilation: leaving only leaps of sound

    daring like the broken tacking of butterflies,

    the encompassing peace waking the slow slink

    out of our minds,


What a stupid mistake

I have made,

and will make again.

To fall for language, words,

                    these concrete boots I slip on

to wander the riverbed. The rock that carries me

down into the lonly beauty of deep water, that I must leave behind

to return, let go of or drown.

As I dive for pearls like bleached

            stars in the pitch depths, the water like a second, heavier sky,

Then resurfacing, moving vertically, creating the microcurrents, the very absense to

pull us upwards: and it is always absense, emptiness that draws us, moves us


We are like how the wind moves. Gasping.

The air moving to where it is not.

And I must find a new rock, and another,

then leave them all behind, a nest of heavy stones in the deep

underwater, as though

            Atlantis is yet to come, will be built from the abandoned stones

                        of our dives.

From the stones moving to where they are not.