© Camille Daytona 2020

A selection of poems


airborne children


we are nowhere in particular

we are a 

           dot on a map

we are a falcon stone-grown to a roof

yet we are still a falcon.


we are airborne babies

kept in recluse.


we think we know about these streets and their features

or that we have to move cities 

in order to rewire our brain.


maybe it is enough to leave the door ajar

or shower with the lights off.

if you take a shower every day

you never get very filthy.


it is shameful,

all the comfort

that kept us from ever reaching this state.


maybe we have to see the worst

landflood in history

or suffer a concussion.

snowflake bath


before I lay my eyes upon the proof of something - before I do that,

I must feel the fuck out of nothings

what I would like is to stay in overlooked corners

what I dream of is a meta-life

that I can get back to and count the days as a way of keeping them

there are a lot of boxes to be filled

and purged and filled again


I will remove myself out of situations too legitimate

or useful,

to return to him and me in a snowflake bath

with crystals by the window


(and to the things that are very very tangible

like shells printed on paper

or like when something is very old

or odd, 

the touch hits differently)




wherever it lays pounding

still warm and tactile

in sheets of a river bed 

we do not go there anymore 

we thrive on electricity

we repair and replace in the blink of an eye

where does the light even still come from


be it the core that holds the grit 

be it the hold of a hand

which is sometimes an attempt

sometimes a confirmation

be it the surprising capability

of the aformentioned core

be it the sight of the gate that holds something from you

it holds something from you

now I say this again but this without hesitation


September 28


time and time again

turning in a big wheel

with the fossils and the flowers

the fumes and the fuels

I sit in disharmony because I was put on this earth

as a sweet invitation to turn that around

and to kiss and to shatter 

and to find shelter in forgetting

without the proving or the affirmations 

spinning low in the grass beneath the clouds like a cottonmouth

never having read anything ever

no one else’s nor my own

forever on a silken threadmill

the dots erased before their marking

lurking in their whiteness


I declare this field outdated

I declare my cortex undamaged

I rewrite the story

I recall anything and everything to be unreal

and replace it with a surrogate 

I exist along with the faces of men 


I fulfill conjoined desires

I fall

I fuck and unfuck



you are the soldier and the sheep

and the rainbow inbetween, the leap towards

a treetrunk where we sit on 

faces covered from the sun 


the well we unwillingly drank from is blessing us after all 

the spools rewinding

back into the lavender and the concrete flowers

towards the discomfort of wetness 

the sight of sameness

the sunken sand  



in divine timing

in all this crap and clutter,

the drum

the blade

between disorder and heaven


that’s where we meet


when my body is weak I turn to the sight of Imre on the graveyard

when we gave him goat cheese pie

I wanted so badly to take him home and too late, the realization struck me

only a child does that,

only a child takes a bird out of its nest, no matter how bleak in appearance


Imre was the diamond cat

Imre did nothing

it’s easy to pretend you’re being followed

when all you want is a following

with your pointy fingers on the foreheads of creatures

all sizes and ages

to give them names

May 31


you call your dad but he speaks in his 2011 voice

you lie despondent in the same bed 

you think you are cemented in a stone wall


you look at the universe while it’s not there

you look through the same eyes that contain it


they pierce through the middle ages and the holy fruit of Eden

they thread a needle through virgin Sophia’s brain

and the tincture of her womb has dissolved in your body

the cleansed solution is within you

chaos is nothing but the white of an egg


elsewhere than where the snake bites its own tail

lies are sold like candy


empty-handedness is mistaken for void


the greatest occurence of a lifetime is not sweet 

but still sticks under every chair we ever sit on

it smashes to pieces our childhood bed

it unentertains us 



eleven is a nicer word than it is a number

my number was supposed to be twenty-two

because it was sewn onto my jeans

and now I am twenty-two and I keep quantities in boxes

and I loathe the fabric

cornucopian angel


I miss her like that:


when she walked with a spring in her step

and denied the dead probably trampling their daisies 

if conscious ignorance exists

then that was what it was, and the bricks she touched seemed supercharged 

but she never heard of ego death


the body carried like a lamb

licked in both ears

succumbing softly never knowing of 

a skin behind the peel


and still peeling 

May 1


what is it that draws me back to the zero point

I like emptiness because it keeps me low


to rise eventually


selective blindness works greatly

you let your body do a slow dance 

between energy poles

in one room 



sometimes I miss the hospital