Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Are we even bending over to touch our feet in the morning just out of bed, sleep crumbling in the eye crease reticent crescent sun flinching from kettles releasing the lumbar spine arms hung like crimes head caressing the feet with shadow are we even over ourselves by the time a rich man pulls out his lumpy phallus sneaks in from behind promising we like it. Retracing my steps. Yes, I had doubled over yes there was a second version of me who needed to see the world end in this disheveled matriarchy yes it was a good excuse for all this running no I did not like it no your cum wasn’t sweet and right where it landed in a corpse of moon. I didn’t confess because you didn’t confess. It’s better waiting for the secret to eat you the way I taste it everyday as our endless bluest intimate. Palming the velvet then clawing it then laughing like backwater at an impasse about to blurt itself out and be everywhere, Fuck your couch.
Friday, November 17, 2017
She sits there like I didn’t slap her a few seconds ago rapt in the smiling copper/mine and sniffing dust for the final bit of industry could be bartered for a night in the square with no morning. If she hadn’t died young-like all the ones she left for dead in the field or cooked into the confessions, confections, infected suns, aestheticized. If she hadn’t treated the brutalization of women like such a problem, been raped on prom night and then again and again for as long as she could count to zero. And dissolve, be solved for hollow peaches. So if I seem broken and blue. Angela Davis’ brother is the CEO of Xerox, I heard. Bitches be copying, niggas too, everything, desperately, keep this record you’re disappearing and disappointing me. I heard she’s a narc and the narcs are heroes and don’t get killed off by the artificial intelligence. It’s all lies and scorned rumors of course, everything important is by now so numb it howls in silence with Julien Priester and them and me, keep this record. . Ai the poet not the pitted plum of our trophy hunting and unintelligence, not the dead sardines that keep washing up in cans and side by side on Dr. Oz. It is in her lavish violence that we recognize the depth of our need to be loved to touch devils with feathers that unnerve them and sever the red clay of gender with knives as patient as mirrors cracking inside the flesh like wasps nests hatching as the disease you catch when you outrun everything and can’t forgive yourself this delirious and lonely beauty
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
He keeps me sipping pearls fingers in the socket feeling for his wet corpse and crying
I insincerely can’t remember I do remember wanting him dead but I blank at the going through and then I kept wanting him back Never remove scars
Card game suit of flowers in the cleared out sugar factory when you fan them down and declare defeat I’ll be watching like a lucky scar from the show window on the top floor with Jim rotting invincibly becoming a crime He keeps me criminal minded and I like it very much to capture Patty Hearst in black who one day will start craving babies of her own That’s the difficulty with being a woman and militant tender one day you’ll want to breed something innocent of your disordered longing and a world that doesn’t need remedy and you might have to settle for amnesia for taking someone out to make this a safer place and you will consider yourself innocent and reborn