yesterday is a swamp.
i can feel newgrown tits loose beneath my shirt (sick).
smell of sex is marshbed smell of smell
outside
tree branches outlined in sodium orange,
night's black is bleached by a cityfull of people
who don't sleep in their beds.

best not to think of,
remember,
or anything. best not.

i
swear i
can
taste
the sunlight
and
it's
green
and
good

What's the best way for it to go
re: improbable armadillos crushed to keratinous
bits in Central American highways?

I'm compiling ideas for later,
dividing live from dead with Linnaeus' eye
for separation.

Taxonomy is violence, dontcha know.

Name me as you unname yourself. Think
carefully - three species of rosella are
crashing into clean rainwashed windows
right now.

Think I'll define your lot by the way
you eat an apple - top, middle or
bottom first? then by your taste for cruelty, your
Machiavellian plots to resolve stinging Oedipal complexities
by annexing the world's wombs and crawling
back in we are different.

Our orders do not mix.

Guys, shut up.

Like, seriously, shut the fuck up and get out of my head because you are not needed nor useful.

Useless chattering bitches.

Go speak to the tiny fish I found hatched in pondweed today. You could still see the yolk dangling from his belly; he was still feeding on what he was born with.

There's a metaphor in that but metaphors are dull. Better to hammer it home with a simile or something.

let it out; how?
surface of the paper is a universe little
liquid filled onions scattered in my skin distort
to feel it sensation is the distortion if I'm
gonna taste you I have to carve the salt
from your skin and bond it with the
crackling brain sorting sensations into a world
to live in

what infinite force insists it's all real?

let it out; how?
hunger desire and need
animate our miraculous flesh, squeeze
and relax the muscles in the heart
of humanity, so like a dog's heart
or a cow's heart or a pig

why is a pig's heart dirty?
pray for the hearts of pigs
pray for our common skin

postmodernists belive in
surfaces believe in defying
water believes in finding its
level believes in
gravity believes in the grace of
the fall believes in
leaves spotted with
age believes in
inevitability believes in finding
us all we believe in
sunlight believes in clear
atmosphere believes in
oxygen believes in
breath believes in
lungs believe in
blood believes in
veins believe in
flesh believes in
skin believes in
division believes in
keeping out the
bad things believe in
frightening
you believe in
me I
believe in none of that.

Whatever have I not done?
However do we cover the silence?
When should I sink into the churning neon exhilaration of terror and when do I shout back at cold clamouring midnight ghosts solidifying the air?

The sweat dissolves boundaries, I'm dreaming of red light,
trapped in the first person pronoun I've become the desk chair you
sit on and the walls watching you slab-faced watching you up and down,
all signs point to action. Abstraction. Sit down, I'm boiling
hot about to scald some uncautious thing.

Whatever have I done was I not a ripe good fuck why shrink things down now
why now why here?

my moving brokedown body is
blind to its path and the delicate grinding gears
moving mechanical limb after mechanical gut
and metal skin.

what configuration of bone can you imagine?
how do you suggest I rebuild myself?
go on; sink your hands into my disassembled skeleton,
like a bucket of lego, would I
be better with a jaw on my hip
or thighs opening from my armpits?

be creative. be the fevered imagination of
evolution making simple animal bodies
plastic in human hands.

stop here, ashamed, wet behind the ears and
afraid to talk about things I surely know
nothing about. Even the mighty pen feels
weak in my hand, if I had been born
a man my arrogance would trample the
trembling girl hiding somewhere dark and
hostile, wrench open the windows, stride out
into the day all naked and foul like
some sun god waking each morning to
saturate the earth with hard, vivid light.

If I were a man I'd be chattering
mad and sweating I'd scream not
speak I'd call you a filthy no good
shit for brains whore and when my thick
fingers tangle witht he hair on the
back of your head some part of
you will agree, some part of you will
open up, bare your neck, beg
to be dissolved in the drunk sweating
unapologetic mass of my man's body
above you, unmoveable, thick as storm
clouds filling the sky when something irreversible
is about to happen.

If I were a man I'd be the snarling
raving genius people write about to
hate or love who can tell I'm
cruelty and sex all at once, I'd be
hunger and you'd be satiety, I'd be
the will the world turns for, there to
soothe the craving you never thought
would open up along you in one seam of pain,
I would be the taste of metal when you
hit your head, I'd be your mother's blood
and the grit of dirt when they bury you
and every rough familiar thing in
between

stop here.

(cross posted to As/Is under a wankier title because, y'know, I love attention)

I came across her crying in
the puke-foul bathroom
of In Blue.

As I went to wash
my hands I spied her
pointed red shoes
beneath the basin.

Her friend was maing soothing sounds, I was
to leave
unobtrusively

without looking into her lovely tear-stained face, or
the lovely broken heart
printed upon it. Nor was I to mention

how you tire of crying
in stinking nightclub bathrooms, over
a brittle lyrical version of love that
breaks as soon as it's built.