Finding
a skull passionate about tantra.
Opening
a can of brainless doorknobs.
Their
screams' shredding. An
earache
running across the room.
Amid
their general interpersonal panic,
their
long, annoying gums.
Between
winching oxygen, my chest pauses.
A
burst reptile, rife with ducts.
My
chest shrieking sexy, something
running
up and down inside, following
a
pattern, something inside's attraction
to the
streaks on the walls inside.
My own
brain of sentient biohazard
shiny
fecal crepe. Its higher regions
responsible
for weaving, emotional, hybrid
puke.
My
body's encounter, daily,
with a
suit. Which suit my body's skin
finds
slimy, but edible. My body likes
the
suit, but shouts getting in and out
of it.
As though choking in a tourniquet.
Shouting
that it's unsafe to eat
the
slimy suit.
In the
backyard, my forehead
dragging
pink along. Searching
for
something buried. Clothes.
A
whale beached on its
laundry,
on the brink of complete
nudity.
Surfing the earth's
nice-smelling
riffles. But very
exhaustion-prone,
always.
The
backyard hangs from a hook.
My
probing handstand. Glazing
in one
of the concrete's piercings'
aggressive
emission of a haunting.
The
backyard's decadence's squirts.
A
zombified puppy, scraping. We
meet,
this fragile manifestation of knit bones
and I.
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