Surplus

1 February 2015

A surplus of appendages.
A register of distorted perceptions.

Shoved into the circular opening of the device,
waves of magnetic composition flutter the flesh.
You use your personality to get the honey out.

Metals in the blood reconsider their assumed
fidelity to the body the blood supports, it communicates.
Radically rooting for the opponent.

It feels like divine intervention, but
might just be an inferior kind of fabric.
What do you even want to be?

I think of something as vague as our genitalia,
as if they could be differentiated.
Of the order of velveteen, velour, rayon.

What if I told you, you have to appear
at the government agency, face to face
with the good burghers, their smiling offspring.
I said I was a catalogue, a trace.

There exists an unbroken line of narrative,
a conversation, between fashion and war.
My flight landed hard on the pykrete carrier.

For the first time since the peaceful autumn,
the fall, we are presented with the opportunity
to approach the skin as a fabric.
Woah, I couldn’t handle the goods.

The sovereign is that which decides to suspend its relation.
I think of your sex, of its wealth, our surfaces
as vague arrangements.

Say you work less than twenty hours.
No, say it.

You attempt to purchase the street magazine sold by the homeless,
but fall short by forty cents.
The destitute console you.

Did you shake the book?
Did you reassign the relevant officers?

I voted to send the citizens to contain the police.
I vote to erase the citizen.

Is it possible to use sex as a kind of manipulative solvent?
Leaning intently onto the joints.

I never wanted to be a part of your series:
people you love in embarrassing headwear.
Would you like milk, sugar, milk with sugar, or just milk, or just sugar?

I was doing my being confidence trick.
I evolved two nasal openings, and the rest followed suit.

Gradually, I acquired the capacity to read, then put it on the market.
We began to open by appointment only, like in nature.

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