Around here, this bedroom acts as the kitchen of our bodily tether. Already are people. This fucker maintains momentum even as I sharpen my eyes. The prognostics can be discovered in our previous acts. The tremble, tentative, yet equally violent for it’s curtained bliss. The lines of my ass, as legumes portent with pus, the ugly saucier of disregard for family and the other beats of the tribe. The other side of the house holds empty rooms as libraries. These small fractions of our lives that live in odd shapes that were never really shapes to begin with. This leg goes first. I cower in the corner at the first indication it is happening but then realize the destiny of dreams that they really do come true. He cuts against the grain. I close my eyes and dream of Orlando and there is sunshine and a pool and this is not the house we built for two, this is the house we built for housing the rest of our poultry. He hands me a bite, and it tastes medicinal yet, as such, somewhat comforting. The feeling this will get better saunters around the brain as the dog watches from the doorway. The transcendent foundations that achieve my bundle. Having the frailty to choice the good words, and somehow be modest about it. His face was stinking like everyone. I want this to be a video yet not for anyone to watch. I pour into the upwards, into the young men and weather. I’m sad I must die, but these are beautiful shoes. The classic undertow of technique and how simply we used to walk together. Now yellow, sucking. This is the only way to keep from losing. Very bright, the lustful and curious nature of taste. He slices, I wince, and there is more blood on the floor, these puddles of juice the dog shortly notices and investigates, his snout and tongue rubbed into the stuff. Very yellow. The sound of the slice, the slow and precise nectar of it, the glittering and sputtering jets. Skies full of it. The fences begin to darken and I’m forgetting my name. The jiggling pole, the actual minutes being furiously self-measured. The taste in the air is slack and sweet, salt-water taffy left in plastic too long. This exposed bone now mocks the flesh of its other. In service to its systems. Head on and caught in one aspect of its unit. I don’t know any other way. He sings so sweetly now, covers of our recorded noises. This singing to an uncertain body. He specializes in the filet, I remember that. Slams his fingers into me like implicit love. And real bodies, the kind we used to eat. He asks if it’s alright, and I nod, but that’s just me jumping myself up from black. But it’s alright. I am a wasted hole. He used to say I was his cherry blossom fatigue. I never connected that with an image but it felt warm. He always had clever reasons for everything. Lived in and developed linear. I’ll be thankful, once it’s my turn. I think, slightly, to myself: this is more boring than I expected. Intentionally gushes with the valueless. A style creeps over me like rubbish and I taste sweet, like candy, don’t I? I try to regain some order, as he continues his making me mine. I figured this session would be more violent, or feel that way in my predestined always thinking feeling thinking. There isn’t a clear way to feel without thinking, or words, or 60% of that feeling. He has put on a few pounds of me, I think. Nothing can destroy me except my own destruction as I lay here living and telling him “I remain”. I know how to use my holes, or have learned how to manage my memories. I remember how noon was fabulous. These are cheap wooden doors. My mood turns pastoral. I figure the image of the meadow nearby where I would nibble on his nipples and shake the grass from his hair. That’s all gone now, some Sunday brunch with toast. We had had too much to drink that day and both our shoulders are indented a bit by the solution. I’m hiding somewhere else. No shapes like the soft restraint. He likes it when I moan a little. I manipulate this proxy to the best of my advantage, always a little behind in the giving. The soft of these peoples, the tensoria of my lowers, the brick of the break in heat. All I wanna do is be with you, if you want me to. The ranges to horny crunches, the chew. Without realizing it, I’ve come on myself. He dips a part of me in it and turns on the radio. My purpose today is nourishment and pleasure and I soften my noise a bit. The buckbottom blister retains it’s sack race win. I glamour the document of me. It is my favorite mistake. He pushed me wack-side. I lose my foot and feel photographed. These same mistakes made serious by repetition. It follows that these it follows that these it follows. I can’t say any of these words. Because they don’t exist. The monochrome inflation as burden and waif. I bite my belt and think about decay. A gaze has lifted the ripples. When we met we spent more time in the kitchen than you would think was humanly possible. The acoustic. A heavy tulip. Back off, Jack. Senses. I slip some. And I remember. I remember as he gathers his things how we were and like antiquated surprises always surprised each other with our sameness. How never used to sigh. I would be simple and tool the information as I walked through the door to find him on the knees and tearing at his arm with teeth. This was how I remember normal. The old used to of the us. The desolation of even and the right now, the facts that require greater swindling. My mouth, when it speaks (it doesn’t) rescuing slowness. Our number one problem is: I am not enough. There is hunger greater than what the fridge can fit. These self-negating reasons come from the books and binders I carried in high school. The taking up and tearing up. Sometimes sincerity takes too long. The fallow right hand path, made conditional, always, always seems to be the wrong choice of travel. Even as I lay here I know my mother is dying and I will have to wait awhile to call her and give her my regards. I won’t be able to make it to the hospital room, the funeral. I won’t be able to tell her anything but how sorry I am and about how I don’t have most of my body anymore. She, at least, will be buried with herself mostly intact. She will be burned and buried full. My slippery blood in my head regains more future tense. I get foundations. I don’t know what to do about the inevitable stains that will be left on the block, but I have a few ideas. He is busy with fashioning new types of slender, and I imagine myself as a type of lesser art. I doubted I was original and never expected to be not at all. A surface concern that udders the guilt. I stole sugar and pretend love. I wonder about others, now dead, the people I loved and did not eat. I have not loved enough. I’m sure to forget I doubt, I dream, I live. This space called doubt. This is where the practice hangs. This is the messy type of forest, of hair. I speak this as if to you alone, I have such a chic ideal of possibility, it only feels like resisting China. My mind is a skin and the soul spills over. This and this and that and this as he leaves me on the bed, the dog licking at whats left of my sac and solids.
***************************************
I do not see it
miles away
the young men in
ads this spring.
Splinters of them
burnt out
books and the treeless chapters.
From the sweet mercy of the men that came before.
These categories
are always
people, or
the required ones.
The landscape more
radically orange
than when sunsets beg
secrets
bitten.
House like a
home, the ability
to find place
in abstraction.
The favor of
the real contradictions
of the real
inside.
The hotel, restive,
in my mind
is curtains.
Just give me
another chance
I can do anything.
I eat only when eaten to.
