turning in my stomach
defying its fate upon the lips of water
rejected by the dirt
(its mother, the whore)
receiving the fluids of plants and animals
sky and sea
the piss and tears from our little sun
the life-blood of time and space
turning in the center of me
denying its self
other people pass by
they put their hands in me
Onto the shape inside and
feel me like a bloated baby pig
prepare me for dissection
ask me questions about myself
(their hands still deciphering my sphere)
I go home and want to bathe
away
the afterbirth of normalcy
coating my neck
sitting on the top of my hand
talking to my face, saying:
"Let me enfold you--
and all of your senses
your pain is not real
I'll show you
wake up, swallow
breathe in and out
drink liquids
vomit
touch bodies
fall
cut off your head
pretend to understand other people
while the fog of typicality
bleeds over your virgin eyes
like the sunrise dies
sleep, and
repeat this day after day
in precisely the same manner."
The life of the living dead
is interesting to the same extent
that it is interesting how static electricity
makes the hairs upon my arm
stand and then sit down again
stand and then sit down
But, me
I am a kitten
pawing at a ball of yarn
on fire
and I prefer this
No comments:
Post a Comment