Poem: king lear is unattractive
is there anything you would like us to know? academically? personal experience?
:
my mother was raped and you are my lover.
i know nothing at all except when you whispered my name
it was violence; that i was not touching skin, or
how i'd imagine it any other way academically,
unpeeling back the ugliest fucking thing i'd ever seen;
this is how we said we'd do it to our lives, samantha,
we could sit here all day carving
SWEETHEART, HOLD ON I LOVE YOU
onto our thighs;
ironic as a lipsticked kiss,
looking like you bled your heart out through his
mouth;
my hipbones are cracked
and
i do not consider myself a woman as much as i consider
myself a writer and i am not a writer because i do not write
about
the human condition so i pledge allegiance to the flag i do not
trust: like a cigarette. it dirties my throat.
like the peach tree of when i was younger. i threw that
rock into the neighborhood boy's face.
that is what i would do to that
earth shattering compartment,
what i call your
cavity,
i know nothing because i love myself.
i know nothing for the drumming of this machine,
what i call your
voice.
it is too hard to turn me on.
i fuck myself with machines.
i am being fucked by machines.
speaking foreign languages; their
tongues scraping our cavity walls:
this is the body, walt whitman, this is the body
this is the body, body, bodies untrue
like newspaper fillets, our bodies are warm and warred,
scattered and obtuse; this is the body, the body, this is the body
where i held onto you.
this is the body, this is the body in packaging and disarm,
this is where the surgeon pokes, where he inserts his ride
this is where my prettiest land lives, and my birds roam and ovulate
this is my cavity, my chopin and ladies with cards and unborn
features. this is the body, this is the body, body, body,
the politics of burying a corpse: you can't die until we pay for your name,
you can't die until we pay for your name, you will never die.
this is the body
this is the body.
this is the body in which i used you.
:
my mother was raped and you are my lover.
i know nothing at all except when you whispered my name
it was violence; that i was not touching skin, or
how i'd imagine it any other way academically,
unpeeling back the ugliest fucking thing i'd ever seen;
this is how we said we'd do it to our lives, samantha,
we could sit here all day carving
SWEETHEART, HOLD ON I LOVE YOU
onto our thighs;
ironic as a lipsticked kiss,
looking like you bled your heart out through his
mouth;
my hipbones are cracked
and
i do not consider myself a woman as much as i consider
myself a writer and i am not a writer because i do not write
about
the human condition so i pledge allegiance to the flag i do not
trust: like a cigarette. it dirties my throat.
like the peach tree of when i was younger. i threw that
rock into the neighborhood boy's face.
that is what i would do to that
earth shattering compartment,
what i call your
cavity,
i know nothing because i love myself.
i know nothing for the drumming of this machine,
what i call your
voice.
it is too hard to turn me on.
i fuck myself with machines.
i am being fucked by machines.
speaking foreign languages; their
tongues scraping our cavity walls:
this is the body, walt whitman, this is the body
this is the body, body, bodies untrue
like newspaper fillets, our bodies are warm and warred,
scattered and obtuse; this is the body, the body, this is the body
where i held onto you.
this is the body, this is the body in packaging and disarm,
this is where the surgeon pokes, where he inserts his ride
this is where my prettiest land lives, and my birds roam and ovulate
this is my cavity, my chopin and ladies with cards and unborn
features. this is the body, this is the body, body, body,
the politics of burying a corpse: you can't die until we pay for your name,
you can't die until we pay for your name, you will never die.
this is the body
this is the body.
this is the body in which i used you.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home