Meet my sexual geography.
Every day you're planning for an aneurysm --
You
think:
"The
violence in our lives is freedom to others --
my neural tube means nothing to the world."
Couldn't
we really just say it's easy to feel power,
and curse every member of the bleeding mortality rate?
At
least your lover looks like he's suffering --
mine won't even carry the zygote --
you must understand this --
(at least in terms of operational control.)
The
structures are so powerful --
developing vertebrae poke through muscle.
We
are helpless.
DNA
grows between the text bodies, and we hide our faults.
The
clots form a portion of your brain
that will not empower you,
but you continue to rest on the lumen.
I
will remain silent while my heart compresses blood,
branching under free life, only of your own.
I
am not creased at the head.
I
am not creased at the head, nor am I breathtaking when confronted
with strangulation -- the rare misery of a promise completely exhausts
my brutality. We should escape and drown before the sad faces have
a chance to appear in fogged car windows. The mood is still too anxious
and thoughtful. I have written whole books of hymns about ligature
marks and abraded my memoirs, reflecting on the decade -- researching
personal narratives -- reconstituting grief and oxygen -- freeing the
human race from its leather
outfit packed with illicit drugs -- but I am always testing positive
for innocence and risk. The river is swollen today, spent with passion.
Flawless inhumanity -- I can smell it. I should practice drowning while
in character, so it does not seem so accidental. Blood pressure, fractures,
x-rays of the desert southwest. When I actually lived, it was in the
deep woods, absent my tank of oxygen. American literature has always
resulted in mournful singing and a feeling of choking. Agony subject
to piety -- yearning for a link to ruin.
Tell
me if I am affected.
Successions of pain, test tubes, jealousy - photocopied
documents examining my quality of life -- long needles found
along the sidewalk. Sometimes it would so be nice to reach a zero-point.
Consider what risks exist for the penniless -- development of
nationality? -- seizures and fits of historical consequence?
I have begun to cherish love (in contrast to my lowest broken rib)
and find oneness in the intimate details of my bleak and empty room.
My window insulates other strains of life, ones that I once knew.
When do we begin the procedure? Now I have nearly forgotten. I would
like many doses, so as to suffer a death less painful than the ghost
of our Western civilization.
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