Sitting Pigeon fit in a Fit

This is True

Pillow Words

Here, Your Hair

Tonight in Sight

Todayrm

Cuntily Cooing all over My Sob Party

[AM|AM]

[FLIMS|FLAMS]

[AS|SNO]

GUIDINGFUCKER

OXANVIL

OXANVIL

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Your torture cups the cusp of entirety like a tail wagging in the face of a wanton gigolo – tendered to the teeth that bite down on the nipple of the fully astute. Let’s call a spade a spear and dig deep at a deeper meaning. Too many jaws are a simply threat to the fish, and lacking a night of grazing on land, are left furnished just so before the finish line^x.

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Such the hippo stench that floats, if only barely by barely pool results.

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You make the desperate sacks of fat asses full of fat people tears seem like a common response to hygiene. Turkey that mission along the lines of reach and pool it in a cleaning rectum where cleaning is clearly to be done.

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Normally, we would clear this unclean result as a fiction, but all this life attracts predators, all of us, like sharks seeking blood seeking shelter^y.

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An opportunity so frank it’s fucked.

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NOTES ON “OXANVIL”

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^X Of no proper response to the relation of the tail, it’s a tired trope that clownfish still adhere to.

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^y Of no proper response to the relation of the cubby, it’s whored and holed as much as it is.

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TRANSIENT VICTIMOLOGY

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Preface

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I was to tell you not to worry; the things someone did to you on the freeway were done as instances of platonic overdose. You were finished regulating your finer follicles, finishing up for the camera in front of you; you were auditing your lipstick like scatological scrawl; munching in 11 instances of tedious bondage. You say you do this to yourself, you say all the time, but you’re the one who pressed ‘record’ in the first place. Boys shouldn’t play with saucy feelings; nor are they meant to play victims. They are meant to create fear, punched from purses; they are meant to create sanitary meat culled from the prospectus of a mannequin saying yes from queer angles of neglect; they are meant to create victims out of the blossoms of their wounded nightmares, created by their own wish to spread, legs wide, a kind of sloppy octopus, suffocating anything, anyone, that might eventually rue the acquaintance someday.

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Indoctrinational Collapse

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You stood on the train platform and

silence escaped from your eyes in the

heat and holding a pigeon plucked fresh

and hurting, spun her diameter into tricks

that kept those around you entertained – enough

so as to make you miss two trains, as others

did also, acting like petulant gawkers in

luck, refusing to turn their eyes even while you

blushed and the bird railed its weak wing in your

face, felt then more like a tickle than an attack.

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Finally, already late for your appointment, you

threw the bird down on the tracks as another train

approached. She howled at the crunch, then was

silent, riding along underneath, expelling herself

until expiring to pulp, somewhere in Evanston.

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At the Clinic (A): Male Operational Vectors

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Was your fibrosis caused by stumping? by egalitarian fuselage?

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(He garners the gamut of so-called ‘hot to trot’ through ‘sinner (or slut)’.)

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Did you spell out the necessity of the beating appropriately? Did you smile while you spoke the words while still keeping your tone abundantly serious, like bran flakes?

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(He squatted over the face and shat out a placenta of grief, which she misinterpreted to mean ‘I’m sorry’.)

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Do you spend evenings washing yourself of the previous day’s hydro-collateral damage diaper?

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(He denies collecting a drop; spends minutes staring at the floor.)

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Why do you think you are here? What do you believe caused your symptoms to return so acutely?

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(He specializes in off-putting maneuvers of passive-aggressive retaliation: you tell me.)

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Can you tell me how you laugh? cry? pee the bed, when you do?

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(A half-hearted cry of laughter causes him to wet himself, itself an elongated display of defiance.)

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When you imagine touching another, where does that desire stem from, initially?

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(He puts out his hand, ‘out of politeness’ he replies.)

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And when that offer is declined, as it was last week according to your chart?

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(He explains that there are many ways around it, through charm or remedial redress – offering up a single finger will often do the trick.)

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A refusal to charm eats at your tail – how do you keep your balance in bed?

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(Through intimidation and a sappy love song.)

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Pretend for a moment that no one loves you: how do you feel upon waking up each morning?

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(He turns to a poster of male anatomy on the wall: raising a single eyebrow calmly states ‘optimistic’.)

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Now pretend for a moment that no one likes you: how do you feel when going to sleep each night?

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(_________________________<_____________+++++++++++++++++++++_____)

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At the Clinic (B): Female Operational Vectors

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He would tell you things you enamored like love, and yet would forge fissures in your flesh like so much forgetting. How do you respond?

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(She would stop puckering so much – evolving like lasting instead.)

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Do you use him like a mirror? Like a wanting image of your best?

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(She does not see how this is relevant, but the answer is no, not always.)

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Do you feel he uses you as a mirror, in similar fashion?

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(She looks down at her waist: not unless he hates himself.)

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Do you express joy as a form of attrition? Of absolution?

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(Yes, no, only sometimes.)

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As claimed by others, you are a menstrual sack of ugly bonanzas. Do you claim offense at such a statement? How would you counter such a claim?

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(She would.)

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Would you continue to offer up your body to such a charge?

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(She would, but only as a counter-charge, as a soggy defense to the contrary.)

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Do you feel yourself to be the victim in any given situation? One where an attack is pointed, needling towards you like so many snakes?

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(Only when properly attacked, she states. And then, only sometimes.)

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Do you split the addendum of your body like a drum?

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(No comment.)

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How would you characterize any instance of insertion of a foreign body intent on illustrating the male need to infect another body, regardless of the end result?

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(No comment, eyes closed.)

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When someone calls out for your gender to kiss and fuck until rigor mortis sets in, blasting in a frothy combination of tears and vaginal treacle, do you find yourself slick like a Southern disaster?

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(No comment, initially – and then a small addendum of yes, but only sometimes, when I want to be.)

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And So I Watched Him Drowning

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we left all evening, pails of piss

and towels for morning,

a cob raped pant angle

with only two of us shitting

the right way instead.

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back to the bathtub

of the sea

while others watched us like

TV, we washed ourselves

in the chalk outlines of

daddy’s disease and a second

braid of cumshot distance

curdled by the salt around us like

haystacks, tongue huddles best

left found in a toilet.

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the farther that he went out,

the more I wanted to fuck his

friend, and unfolded my desire

all across my furrowed fuck.

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and so he went out, kamikaze-christ

he was, bubbly pills coughing up in

sockets, like he wanted them back and

replaced by accidental digestion dissolved.

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and so I watched him drowning,

the gulls above us dancing like

gravity

all the way home.

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ORANVIL

Spring

Vertigo

Diddle

Dumpster Homage

The Bout

What do you look Like~?

Two Slaps Across The Face

WORD

HOAX

Staving

urve

If my Demeanor is Cruel

Hitting the Bricks

Crowds

Doubly

Rejoice

Are You Happy Mommy?

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Today was mom’s birthday.

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I slept in, enjoying the sleep, and knowing that by the time I woke up she would be enjoying her day, down at the beach, and would be available for a full call still before stuffing the family’s face with carbs and other forms of love.

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On the phone, first with grandma, I talked about cakes and how I had had a dream about a cake the night before. The ladies in question had an issue with the frosting of the cake, German by design, and I had had a problem with a certain cake of chocolate myself.

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I was trying to spread not enough frosting around a cake that I felt wasn’t enough to begin with.

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The other ladies, down at the beach, were having a similar problem, not having the frosting to frost to begin with.

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A usual conversation with mom ensued: what was happening, what had happened, what was going to happen.

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Mom told me something about the past I had no memory of: she had cried in front of me when I was 2, in response to her own mother’s illness. I then, apparently, spent forever after asking “are you happy, mommy? are you happy?”

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It was the kind of thing that a mother would find wildly obnoxious, as it was.

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I feel comfortable, now, knowing that mommy’s happy.

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And, so, happy birthday, mommy.

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Puke In 12 Parts

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makemethrowupmakemethrowupmakeme
throwupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmake
methrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmake
methrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakeme
throwupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrow
upmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmake
methrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrow
upmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakeme
throwupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmake
methrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakeme
throwupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowup
makemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakemethrowupmakeme
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Here Be Dragons

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Something like disaster

had sparked a spiral

of an old world,

a world where

the part of a

body remains

a secret part.

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We can map this now,

as migraines

and shade the point

at gunpoint,

a shortage of points

that are private.

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This is calling it quietly:

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how people use each other.

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The Expected Pigeon no longer Returns

first: Production

Chafes

Of this World, really No Matter