Poems by Camille Daytona
# posted June 21, 2020
the surgeon sped through hallway a few times
vaguely, like a ghost.
he was like a famous person
whose time you could not afford to buy.
on rare occasions we would sit face to face.
he would lean back into his orthopedic chair,
all saggy. I could see his spine bend through his skin.
I had my jewelry on everytime I went.
“take off your weapons”,
he would instruct.
when he opened my back
he could not fathom wat he saw.
I prepared him but he did not listen.
I asked to keep the evidence, which I used
to build a shrine.
now it is scattered:
one piece is in my boyfriend’s bedroom
most of it is in the drawer
where it acts as a magnetic field
to keep the shame out of my body.
it will never decompose.
the surgeon was busy for eight hours.
if I hadn’t been asleep,
I would’ve turned around to see the surgeon’s face
and whispered like they did at my high school lectures:
“why are you all red?”
the most abominable sight
can be one to cherish after all.
whether it penetrates our eyes like acid,
it brings forth a truth
and displays fear.
something feels unsettling
when using the word truth.
I would rather never use any word ever again
that summons the idea
of me as a knower.
the sky has to keep amazing me.
when it stops doing that,
that is my quavering red flag.
I would rather submit myself
to a tree or a lion
but I have an agile mind.
I can not sit still when I have to listen.
but I can ignore and ignore
like no other person.
I might do something really silly after all
like studying astrophysics.
# posted March 9, 2020
thanks 4 Dewi
and so I sit cross-legged between the smudge
I clasp to the roots
that peep out of the pile.
every day conflicts with the other
a chain link continuum,
towards the glazed bushes in gardens
in which crumpled love notes from teenage girls
thrown from the top floor window.
haven’t I been that before?
the way my stockings glimmer
is a substitute for void.
if I catalogize my belongings
will the chaos decline?
I make myself uncomfortable
on the carpet
and I count.
soon enough I see the images again:
as they come flashing
previously from smoking weed
now from just existing.
soon enough the mist comes,
but the dog keeps me in charge:
it checks on my presence when I am far gone.
foreplaying till cows come home
I realize I need a frame.
a lack of boundaries is what,
eliminates my freedom.
I want someone to tell me what to do,
or cry excessive tears
so it is clear that I am sad
instead of guessing the weather.
the only thing I know
is that my climate is turbid
and lawless like slab city.
I haven’t made it there yet.
maybe a muscle twitch
is a crypted message
I’ll sell my furniture
and curate my environment.
I’ll conspire a sham marriage.
how much do you want to stay unknown
or how much do you want me to unsee you?
you know I can’t unsee you
or anything I read about anything to do with blood
I am very afraid of time
I bought a mango which I left to decompose
which I didn’t mean to
sometimes purity has a pungent taste to it
I ask you to imagine this in my voice
while all this time I have bathed and bathed
mostly I like the water to exceed the level of heat that is bearable
where on the scale of bearableness would you place me
strong bones run in my family
my grandmother could build a house in the blink of an eye
she said we took to long to make a plan
or that once you have gathered all the materials needed
you have to act fast
for your willpower not to weaken
I have a plan but I am tethered to a post
and very prone to illness
so I am excluded from this precious piece of advice
you know that but you do not know the severity of it
many of my hues go unperceived
my appearance is confusing
to doctors and to women prone to the evil eye disease
and I had to re-open the gate myself many times
in fact it always closes before it is even fully opened
in fact it is a loophole without an end
December Two Thousand Nineteen
to be receptive is an active verb
it needs me
slightly uncomfortable on the top of a hill
in hiking boots
and an invisible star at the end of each fingernail
spawning the desire
or the will
or both the desire and the will
to stare at an ugly purple vegetable
and to seperate the roots from the weeds
the will seems to be rather the act of toleration,
which is passive
there is a smell to this room too neutral
it makes me not be here
I wonder what clouds smell like
in high school I once smelled a chemical that you’re not allowed to smell
I almost lost my sense of smell
the list of smells without connotation keeps shrinking
I have a new daily challenge
it starts with me opening my eyes to see the same pearl string chandelier
but it is Wednesday
and I have to say the month and the year out loud
and I have to repeat it with a stern voice, as if to convince anyone
that there is no one present in this building
# posted February 12, 2020
the World must be here somehow
the World must be here somehow
at the sight of a dream before it is known
or touched -
with a knife clenched somewhere
and the houses beautifully sown to each other
where we do not live and never will
when I look inside sometimes it is completely hollow
sometimes there are
tiny envelopes swarming
glimmering promises kept small
by choice or
this is the best try of all tries
I blue -
I think about the past as a different life entirely
I try to touch pictures
they melt in my hands
resume your filthy ways of stumbling
in a sandhole
very, very deep
like a tower reversed
meet me at the top of it
the only thing that feels real is rain
with the voice under one’s breath
the World must be here somehow
Coney girl memoir
by the thought of getting past this morning
I was pinned
like a butterfly in a frame
and there were pins that went inside the muscle
and they entered
and you came
racing towards me
your smile formed a fountain
and I stood by with a checkered flag
and I gave up on the standing part
and I lay watching
as many many tasks undid themselves
I threw one coin in the fountain to show my devotion
and one for the fun of the act
then one for you
and one for me
I kept throwing and throwing
like through the slot of a coin dozer machine
that pushes through the gold and the gadgets
where children run around with goldfish
this must be the place, I say
I know this state of being
it is accountable for all and every cloud of hope
that fades before the sublimation
sliding on a conveyer belt
back into butterfly being
where every pin lowers the treshold of pain
that is what happens when you put metal inside of a girl
# posted January 6, 2020
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.
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
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
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
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 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,
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
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
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
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