on discomfort
MARKET IN COMFORT
i. ow di bodi
Di bodi ain't mine, it's spore splayed
in a jar of suspensory
goo. It's filth & airless here, no tug
to toke at, no want to want after.
I'm asking for a film to coat
me in your cells exact cilia, feel
how your touch means like
stick left over from bandaid,
neon white after pinch. The body isn't
well & won't ask.
ii. pin hip, or, absolve me to the kingdom of coma
It shouldn't be seen
rat-eye beading salt
licks as water; it shouldn't be
seen & along the way to grandma's
you become Grandma yourself, a partition
of cookies & slack-jaw noon naps.
Signature aftermath stop
the distillatory push, stop the hoard
of butterfly clips, spit lances, bandages blown
in glass to order. You are laying jokes
thick as magmad sweet pie,
an attempt to rit.
the convulsive pin stick dynamo.
iii. jar
The tire snapped his skull in a flash
of pepsi crush. Every bottle in the world
being redeemed at once. A loud crowd
of pain then not, then wrappers
& pocket papers dragging their nails
down the street. We were burrowing out
of the grand canyon, and I told you to keep
driving. Tract away from the bones & brittle till
the next light. I cut his guts from the wheel well.
Smeared my fingers red to know
better the mercurial sticky strange,
the banal hush that follows in our massive wakes.
i. ow di bodi
Di bodi ain't mine, it's spore splayed
in a jar of suspensory
goo. It's filth & airless here, no tug
to toke at, no want to want after.
I'm asking for a film to coat
me in your cells exact cilia, feel
how your touch means like
stick left over from bandaid,
neon white after pinch. The body isn't
well & won't ask.
ii. pin hip, or, absolve me to the kingdom of coma
It shouldn't be seen
rat-eye beading salt
licks as water; it shouldn't be
seen & along the way to grandma's
you become Grandma yourself, a partition
of cookies & slack-jaw noon naps.
Signature aftermath stop
the distillatory push, stop the hoard
of butterfly clips, spit lances, bandages blown
in glass to order. You are laying jokes
thick as magmad sweet pie,
an attempt to rit.
the convulsive pin stick dynamo.
iii. jar
The tire snapped his skull in a flash
of pepsi crush. Every bottle in the world
being redeemed at once. A loud crowd
of pain then not, then wrappers
& pocket papers dragging their nails
down the street. We were burrowing out
of the grand canyon, and I told you to keep
driving. Tract away from the bones & brittle till
the next light. I cut his guts from the wheel well.
Smeared my fingers red to know
better the mercurial sticky strange,
the banal hush that follows in our massive wakes.
Comments
Post a Comment