I.
Writing. Out of the birth inamorata that shelters me.

I: cleansed. I communicate from parallel data density

socket. Eye: alright. Eye definitive K-Mart complex.

I here, touched, where technology is abandoned. I,

falling aboard. Eye rope in the primacy of winter

daylight. Numb wash of keen swallows pound the face.

I : citric water. I : dissolved into acid counts. Unhook

the temerity of walking as matched shore to shore.

Your belly goes against me like a bruise, or garbage

sack spilling. Repeat: dispenser. Repeat: the sexual

gap of your mouth (a dark rose) – love/bloody spittle/vomit.

We constitute ourselves as liquid rubber running through

the town’s tar pits. Isolated: lassitude. Hairy numbers

come crawling out with the populace’s skulls between

their teeth. River: rivulet. Scarlet flesh of a shell notated

& hollowed by grim virgin birth itemised 1st para. Not the

hole I dwell in: love–blood–vomit. Prise open the can

with a gear shift & swap genitalia albeit monkey surprise

glove excitement. The story’s O couldn’t rid me of

glossolalia no matter how hard they tried. I sang on,

vowels cresting a unintelligible glass. Cracked laminate:

the Duchy. Failed omniscience hunts to gloss panda, we.

Once were. Animals hindered by subject lines &

multiple proclivities. Every time I try to be funny

or clever my body screams so I have to stop. I have

to sacrifice my need for love or the abuse known as

interpretive approval. The body beautiful, the sunk

navigator tuned to inner anchor. Now then the body

flames it shrieks it hovers it blasts it’s been plundered

by years, animations, shit, flows. Unhindered by

sustenance, attacked for entertainment, & now

surfaces in the grass before a waiting smile.