from Becoming

1 March 2015

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.

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