flipping between the valves
Description of my desk: two round, full haw, sweet lust herbs, steady in the stream of japanese from a stereo. clock saying: you are wasting your life pretending to be a pirate. telephone seconding that with a: don't blow on me every hour, we all need to catch our breath. butterfly on the window, feeling perky, 'i will moult on your notes and make love to your calculator.' my calculator, that chauvinistic thing of logic, thinks nothing. it doesn't need to. i do all its thinking for it, i know which of its buttons to press.
Last train of thought: onion are bulbs, they have stems, adventitious roots, a bulb and fleshy scale leaves covered in piercings through which they suck in air, thick musky air, which they channel to their bulb. that private, circular mound deep in them- the air is not for breathing. it is perfume, just in case there is another onion around.
Contents of stomach: homemade water, ice, and hamburger, meat from a dead pigcow, all pinched in the salt of the stomach. i am breathing gastric juice, because i ate too much. it has begun to come out my ears.
*
MAKING A VIRGIN
how do you make a virgin?
with fat that frills at its edges with the
sheer weight of its task; the fat
we use to smear over our lips, to keep our fingers
on our cheeks, immobile,
for they swell with the abundance of tongue.
the magic is that,
like all things full of fat, we can crack.
oh.
the way we crack in full symmetry,
peel apart like moons of similar
tessellation and purpose:
i am only a virgin if i can contain myself
within myself, tuck myself away.
it is a synapse and a mile,
and i have begun to seal myself with the fat
in my mouth, ready to move
and disappear. and yet,
we are not done making a virgin.
a virgin is born out of tight cling-wrap,
with foreign metal in her abdomen, elusive, well-oiled,
and discontent; a virgin imitates, because
a virgin knows.
the virgin has made a man of me. she has
exposed the cuts in my hand,
deep for loving too hard and too fast; pressed
my apples to the wind.
it is a sacrifice,
the kind virgins are accustomed to.
you force me. you spit. you decay, i am catching
you by your dangly ends, i am falling
parallel to your ends, your ends
are coming around
full circle, holding us in a strangle of flesh.
your ends and meeting mine; we are
devouring the knot, we are grinding it in our bellies.
we both fighting
for the same space to vanish.
a virgin is made from saturation.
*
I am thinking of bursting my hard-core shell of shit-hardened chemistry and calculus. perhaps you will see more of me these days, but otherwise, i am wrapping every single one of you with thick cords of love and keeping the little i know of you suspended on my ceiling. if nothing, to tide through this lonely second. this small click.
I also leave you with this.
Last train of thought: onion are bulbs, they have stems, adventitious roots, a bulb and fleshy scale leaves covered in piercings through which they suck in air, thick musky air, which they channel to their bulb. that private, circular mound deep in them- the air is not for breathing. it is perfume, just in case there is another onion around.
Contents of stomach: homemade water, ice, and hamburger, meat from a dead pigcow, all pinched in the salt of the stomach. i am breathing gastric juice, because i ate too much. it has begun to come out my ears.
*
MAKING A VIRGIN
how do you make a virgin?
with fat that frills at its edges with the
sheer weight of its task; the fat
we use to smear over our lips, to keep our fingers
on our cheeks, immobile,
for they swell with the abundance of tongue.
the magic is that,
like all things full of fat, we can crack.
oh.
the way we crack in full symmetry,
peel apart like moons of similar
tessellation and purpose:
i am only a virgin if i can contain myself
within myself, tuck myself away.
it is a synapse and a mile,
and i have begun to seal myself with the fat
in my mouth, ready to move
and disappear. and yet,
we are not done making a virgin.
a virgin is born out of tight cling-wrap,
with foreign metal in her abdomen, elusive, well-oiled,
and discontent; a virgin imitates, because
a virgin knows.
the virgin has made a man of me. she has
exposed the cuts in my hand,
deep for loving too hard and too fast; pressed
my apples to the wind.
it is a sacrifice,
the kind virgins are accustomed to.
you force me. you spit. you decay, i am catching
you by your dangly ends, i am falling
parallel to your ends, your ends
are coming around
full circle, holding us in a strangle of flesh.
your ends and meeting mine; we are
devouring the knot, we are grinding it in our bellies.
we both fighting
for the same space to vanish.
a virgin is made from saturation.
*
I am thinking of bursting my hard-core shell of shit-hardened chemistry and calculus. perhaps you will see more of me these days, but otherwise, i am wrapping every single one of you with thick cords of love and keeping the little i know of you suspended on my ceiling. if nothing, to tide through this lonely second. this small click.
I also leave you with this.