kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: insanity

at the mill with slaves

I concede – would rather be named 14763 than a silly unpronounceable thing of romanised ‘asiatic language’. And really, i would rather not be named at all. I would like to be raised with fifty million other cherubs in a petri dish, produced by whirring machinery or rows of birthmothers strapped to daises in a clean production line, timed screams, timed labour, babies popping like popcorn to a cosmic manmade rhythm. I should be crammed with organic logic – i would be breathed into life from a first body – the first  achiever of everything, i the machine evaluated every five minutes, battery checks and math. I would like to be stencilled into a character, well-oiled, the flesh concession to a world carved from itself – the brain turned against and into tiny metal canisters, transistors and lawful jetpacks. Bad faith will become the natural state, everything will be told what to do, we will relinquish ourselves and be incapable of fear or dysphoria, we will have no choices to pretend to make, or even lives to live – for this beautiful earth is too sublime to be life. We should pass into objects and out of objects, never having lived and never really dead, stark chance combinations, manufactured atomic algorithms, random, real.
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Bravely, I aimed at utopia. And missed.

hello, amygdala

Hello, Amygdala. Do you see out of my tiny cut-out windows that strange and foreign man across the table? He is speaking, his lips are glistening and gnashing furiously into the shape of words, and when the occasional violent sound is called for, the tip of a viper tongue spittles out from between the gouged-out insides of the mouth and spits effluent into the air. When he is not shovelling food into his mouth he is excavating these words – all the way from Sakhalin that smoke-puffing incarceration from the other side of alimentary land. Suddenly i realise that he is hollow, and his actions transform – his mouth engorges in aggressive ripples and cradles slowly the contents of his stomach as they are brought out, dilated, under the light. The intestines are a trouble to unfold, but the vapid negroid bones fold obediently under the lap of a bloody, clumpy mass and now the whole system is herculean, pumping machinery – whistling with angry air socketed from one end of Person to the other, and still his hands march smoothly on, impaling himself furiously onto spoons and spoons of risotto, cream sauce whisked into the gale and ejaculated like albino mice just seconds after – the whole thing a sick diorama, clockwork.
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Excuse me – I am pregnant with cherubs and wish to vomit them out into the world.

the reaping of a certain degree

/Pastels draw their furrows in flesh
/My hair gives, the strands will part
/I shed profusely and stand on one leg
/After you will ream a plucked chicken
/       like you reamed me
/There are hard lumps of butter that swim
/       congealing muscles injected under the skin
/       I who makes waves in a sea of white
/       Who floats in this sea of me?
/Length is a heavy warm
/       the limbs are browner in sheets
/       under covers, thrashing has no shape, save round
/       Hair, in the light, is brown
/The strands will part, my hair gives
/I am carved and moulded and slicked-up with moist
/
/Gather ’round.
/Come look.