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I is another.
- Rimbaud
You’re the kind of person who can say pussy and please in the same sentence.
You’re talking survival, the sanded kind. You’re fringing forward and stumping the room fine.
You like to spend time with family, usually, but not this time, but you do anyway they so love to hear you moan. You generate the core, spitting, and froth the feeling things. You are excellent at math and choosing the best bag for a carry-on.
Your double meaning meant singing struggled slow. You saw yourself through the eyes of a doctor undressing you with his eyes. You feather the fines of the police an what they do. You love looking, the landscape in the mirror.
Your knot the sublime, but the existence is everything where tied to love. You once had a thing for hairy fat girls. You were sure you had forgotten, broken down in bed and bleeding the fuzzy things. You were the bug boy, not lost, and hit with the bat bent down and back and black. You blue jewel you.
Your feet press down on the pavement and puncture the purity of the place. You wading in sewage in relation to being alive. You show kids how complicated life can be. You lie less and are therefore ignored. You blast the lights off and in the dark give your back to the bed and better the stains from long before. You give your best, but complain about the charity.
You’re welded to the dawn here. You arrived, and belonging there, blossomed into one huge blister of light. You felt fine. You sentence the rest of the paragraph to clutter and fuss. You finance the English system of rebutlery and jank. You panic and dace and walk away. You get hot again and that’s all.
You’re off the goddamn map. You are the subject of private aggressions and public wars. You rent a room to rent and don’t pay the rent. You sly the stone and call it mackerel. You want to ask that question again, and can’t tell if you can conquer the answer. You assume you would, one by one, and the lessons of the white object handed white. You say “not me, not me” and that’s not true. You say “that’s me, that’s me” and that’s not true, there’s no you here to you.
You don’t know what you’re thinking. You’re going wrong and meaningful and choked on the absence. You’re playing all alone, and you want to play catch. You’re hot and agonizing and a still life, stretching. You think to yourself, “any animal would understand that” and you shut your eyes and snore. You stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down and fall out of schedule behind the rest of the bus busied by people being busy. You need to mourn and pine over one particular red shoe left outside the front door. You, then said, laugh. You’re not the bicycle home again, cracked open.
You’d sometimes even sleep here. You remember growing up and how it got to be a competition. You chained beside the puff rain, outside and open and spoken by anyone. You’re the surf of the skin and won’t see any butterflies tonight. You hardly walking articulation as none. You chip in fifty bucks. You have passed into the flood herself. You until sundown, each the same as the last, until this one, the one where you call Canada Queens. You and the memory of edges, of full time rigid, of transparency and plot. You, the only thing left to petal. You, the only thing left to live, it’s realistic, and flat broke on the skids in a Jersey town.
Your location before a submerged city. You are either the subjective or the stricken. You understand. You’re the closed birds singing letting the echo fall across the hall. You’re gonna go get the toaster. You’re a citizen you say so says she she says so will you begin to settle, for more or less the feeling of fixing something that no longer works. You want me to go. You encumber the eleven as two ones, singularly, not two. You’re invisible and the only thing left. Your body in the city makes cities seem stupid. You proposed the crackling of the background but figured it could never take place. You can taste that tender tooth in your mouth and count the days ‘til when it falls out.
You had no letter in the mind’s shadow, or it’s gone there are so many. You have favorite other reasons for your failures. You are the weight of the rouge, purity hated. You boy are getting there. Your existence as the war on comma and bombs of hate and you hate that you look like a bad man bruised. You listen to music and there will be music. You can’t sleep and keep thinking on that night on Geary and gory pours. You’re kept in the stadium, without water, and a reason to root. You rim the rim that doesn’t hold. You dream in the littler fishes, I resolved. You stand and, now swimming, miss the simmering scolds.
You’re at all. You’re finalized and notated and notarized. You’re fantastic and my description is unreal and I meant it that way. Your action slowed, unable to reconsider the other room, it’s so far away. You’re carving a dash in your headboard. You accept bribery from the millions of poor so ahead of the game as to warrant another recession. You speak when spoken to about the lamb, laying on the bed, not praying. You and that that seems also in places. You pee. You find things to think about when you’re not thinking about the things you’re thinking about. You dry the dust and call it crimson. You draught it into your mouth. You’ll be there, as such, as evolution, via children who look nothing like you.
You’re being slaughtered into extinction. You feel better than most. You’re dying as law as lawful necessary and needed. You only think you’re having it, whereas experience is flush. You spit on the crack of the floor and shudder. You file out the waste as want left rotten. You mounted the outside of the linear frame felt like outside in winter. You. You’re. You are. Your fingers are blistered with butterstains. You’re right about the other night. You didn’t master the utter banality of the fork. You felt better than you did last night.
You’re dropping in the dark. You’re the “issue” and it’s going to begin again tomorrow. You were this dot, this blood. You were. You were this plankton, this hard feeling, you were. You were beautiful in last night’s dress, but the rip slipped open and the solid scar beneath rose stupor and stank. You’re mental and metal and road. You called it kindness. You called it canary yellow and puke and the frothy kind you slip on in the shower. You called it rain. You came to and called it you. You bent your bugger confessional and curt. You stomped the pebble out of your show through your chest. You scratched with a fingernail. You buffed your marble and wrote on the floor with yourself.
You wait down the water alone. You in your city seizing, running, freezing. You in your city boiling and bombing birds bound for another city. You in your city and the fantasy of all about. You in your city flanked by underwhelmed and the cathedral window. You in your city old enough to drive but you take the train. You in your city repeating mistakes, keeping open. You in your city graffiti. You in your city chasing after her. You in your city telling bad jokes and the scores from last night. You in your city telling the truth, mostly. You in your city paralyzed rest beside bottom. You in your city also waiting for prey and unprovoked violence. You in your city. You in your city, ankles and duct tape your mother was pregnant. You wait down the water alone.
You may ask about that. You take into account the shorter, rounder curves of the new parts of your body. Your ribs stop singing. Your fingers rest on the linoleum and tap and tap and tap. You’re tapped out. You’re a strange woman and a narrow pie. You say “did I reveal secrets? is my heart dirty? is that lo-fat?” You spend the night in fidgets and fuss, a calm that never comes morning’s coming so soon. You stand your ground, you mean it you do. You were gone except for the world and you. You lost interest, somewhere down the line, and feign the quitting motions. You stopped working late, and remember how that made you be born on a Friday and that was your pet name for Uncle Pluto. You had no money and it came time to deliver but the rich have taste. You eat out the birthing center. Your face whiskers away the face like traveling. Your blink not anything, you’re pro-noun. You.
You’re getting sleep and it’s labor and you squeeze and it hurts to squeeze and you stop and it hurts and you stop and it’s done. Your toes touch the tomb of your memory and it’s alive so hard it hurts. You present yourself, as advertised. You’re not married to it, but you rather like the idea. You’re willing, and unable, to indulge in your lusts like honey. Your slippery shell in the sink is hiding the rumors of faith and substance you snail in your stiffer moments. You don’t wanna talk about it. Your a piece of work, you learn in the cafeteria how to sit. You talk about you and you recall how I let you down. You’re splendor in the gasp. You make a book out of burnable paper and burn the book to spite your taste. You’re looking quite fetching, in your summer suits and random glances, glancing both forward and back you know you do you do. You’re a train wreck, whacking back at the one plugged in. You keep plugging in and you fancy the leak plugged, but it’s leaking still, it’s so still on your bathroom floor. Your body begs to be younger, but you always thought of yourself as older than your years. Your body has holes that cannot be plugged, purged of all blood, they lay there and linger, laughing at you until you finger them awake. Your one organ presses on the other, a futile stab at beauty, it’s so horrendous. Your other organ presses up and away, weighing heavy on your heart, which hurts like a far away place, somewhere safe, somewhere solid and even and
