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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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