been dreaming uncasual
black-brown ticks peppered between sheets like omens
Theyre lone rangers an article said
they still gather though socially inept
and eat the skin off my leg
.
The tru tragedy in this story is that once a bug touches us we cant discard the limb like an outdated cellphone .
The tragedy in that is the example of the expanding culture of disposability transcending consumerism and infiltrating us
like a virus spread from finger to finger to to stomach to liver to neuron
The micro-tragedy is the fear of uncleanliness
Its precipitate the fear of bugs and pestilence.
Steaming from the neck hole it up to heaven send if at the end of it strikes blindness
Carry looped consonants in head
All my plants are spoon fed and linens neatly folded.
Nest in rippling sand and gauge depth in dampness
Rage theft and madness
bargain quality thread bearer.
all wares r brief reflections of light
when held taught , when threatened
Τheres a tall quiet man with a crown of hair hugging the lower part of his head and a light diffusing spot on the very top . i forget his french name but he plays backgammon in the bar every wednesday with his short round friends. He is a string bean , his head a pea , gently carressed by half a dandelion puff . he has a stern look on his face, always.
He doesnt smile, but when theres cake for dessert his eyes do something.
I am hugely intimidated by him and his stern-face.
His words are always nice but the conversations are brief.
I like that his smile is withdrawn it makes it a challenge , it makes something freudian happen under my ponytail.
But just for a sec , promise
debbie’s left eye wanders drastically to the left and her right one looks right past you
and i never know which one to look into when im taking her order
And when i set the pitcher of molson infront of her she looks like a hammerhead shark and she fucking reeks and cries and kisses her mentally special husband on the lips and i can tell she doesnt like it or him.
I think shes in love with her brother.
I’ve drawn debbie 8 times from memory and i always start with her eyes
I dont judge her or kevin for their weirdness or that they shower less than most people .they just exist like that and im telling it how it is. I like them.
I really fucking like drawing her stupid eyes.
Im jealous of how much character she has probably. You dont forget debbie and youll always recognize her.
Not in vanity
gaze at self, prematurely living in the past tense
Mourning my youth mourning my
Very much alive body
i see decades into the future
looking back at smoothness to cry
my body craves grass chewing
to cleanse .
Spit green vaccuumed from under chest
I will chew each blade fifty times
before it slips to tender spot
I will filter the bugs and grit through
my teeth
And the sand i’ll use to scrub my lips
I will lose twenty two pounds
One for each year i’ve spent looking into mirrors
Gorgon-eyed
Trying to turn myself to stone
Im pulling this off the tray
This and the electric zing metal makes
when brushing other metal
The crisp clack of indian plates on glass
tables
Im not on fire or writhing at the thought
of sharing tikka masala with you
But the deckled edge of decorated
napkins tickles my cheek much like ur
bearded chin
And i like it
You’re too frugal to order the mango lassi
And you’ll not get more than a taste of mine
Im not on fire
I am not heated like clay ovens
Or thrown against their scalding walls like
fresh naan
I am not dough in your hands
We’ll sweat tumeric. Cinnamon. Cumin.
Allspice. Peppercorns
I am not on fire but ur hands
Theyre warm enough to make me spit and sigh
And your bedroom will smell like curry
And your parents will know we fucked
And ill have to look their sweet old faces
in the eye as they knowingly offer me
toast in the morning