…to show
I and You in my dreams You and I, wake at and in fear. Rat.
Look at the fucking sky, and for some reason , this looking…
Or, it wa sn’t. I whisper into the pillow: “Yo u, to a dear friend, did”, “He did this”, “He has violent tendencies”, “He came into my friend’s house and…” “Will you ever shut up?” “I think he has a diagnosis”
“How can we reach out to him?”, “What of when we meet again.”
“But what would happen to him there?” or “What gives me the right
to speak out, into the pillow” or “To demand a stronger door
is to demand a weaker self” or “it would betray the internal organs” etc.
How your feminisation kink pu kes us – that the centre of shame’s
my assimilated death. To reduce yorself. When I’m coming out of a house
feeling afraid and the sea, the greying screed, churn churn. Rat plop.
Somehow there’s so little to say. The borders screwed to the sea to land
where formals rest & chuck, exit & sink. Restitution, eyes only
Your ethics, a detention centre. The framework: Holed in lie sneer.
What have you done? Where were you when it happened?. But past
the disclosure, a sea, just that, rat. We go into rooms with abusers. Thump.
just that, rat.
We go into rooms because we’re not moralistic, and we try
and we try and we total & fail. We say “such a violent history he had”
against ourselves. We don’t. We don’t comprehend the hurt
beyond its hilt. We try to listen; it’s impossible to. The spirit is impossible,
departed from his lips as he groaned out. As he clutched my throat
he groaned out. To hear what you say. Made as: etc. No morals at all.
When you ingest the bleach you retain a fantasy of clearing, unclogging,
that beneath the fix, when you gulp or swill it round for Christ sake. Ratty.
But if you’re one of those, Those that have cast certain into abjection,
or extended abjection out into each corner. Each forgetful corner, here is
your number. I will be quiet. You’re not in danger. Everything will continue
to be part of what’s okay for you to not try to remember. “If you throw
t he first punch you are as bad as your oppressor
states the routinely unoppressed
:report.
§
…to tell
I and You in my dreams I and You I wake at and in fear. Rat.
Look at the fucking sky, and for some reason, this looking…
Or, it wasn’t. I whisper into the pillow: “You, to a dear friend, did,”,
“He did this,”, “He has violent tendencies,”, “He came into my friend’s house
and…” “Will you ever shut up?” “I think he has a diagnosis”
“How can we reach out to him?”, “What of when we meet again.”
“But what would happen to him there?” or “What gives me the right
to speak out, into the pillow” or “To demand a stronger door
is to demand a weaker self” or “it would betray the internal organs” etc.
How your feminisation kink pukes us— – that the centre of shame’s
my assimilated death. To reduce yourself. When I’m coming out of a house
feeling afraid and the sea, the greying screed, churn churn. Rat plop.
Somehow there’s so little to say. The borders screwed to the sea to land
where formals rest & chuck, exit & sink. Restitution “‘eyes only for…”’
Your ethics, a detention centre. The framework: Holed in lie sneer.
What have you done? Where were you when it happened?. But past
the disclosure, a sea, just that, rat. We go into rooms with abusers. Thump.
We go into rooms because we’re not moralistic, and we try
and we try and we total & fail. We say “such a violent history he had”
against ourselves. We don’t. We don’t comprehend the hurt
beyond its hilt. We try to listen; it’s impossible to. The spirit is impossible,
departed from his lips as he groaned out. As he clutched my throat
he groaned out. To hear what you say. Made as: etc. No morals at all.
When you ingest the bleach you retain a fantasy of clearing, unclogging,
that beneath the fix, when you gulp or swill it round for Christ sake. Ratty.
But if you’re one of those, Those that have cast certain into abjection,
or extended abjection out into each corner. Each forgetful corner, here is
your number. I will be quiet. You’re not in danger. Everything will continue
to be part of what’s okay for you to not try to remember. “If you throw
the first punch you are as bad as your oppressor
states the routinely unoppressed
:report.
§
…to love
I and you, you and I fear look,
I whisper into the pillow, dear friend.
How can we reach out when we meet again.
To speak out into the pillow
a door to a weaker self
when I’m coming out of a house.
Somehow there’s so little to say;
and the sea, to the sea, to the land
in restitution, eyes
What have you done in a sea
and we go and we go and we try
and we say
we listen to the spirit
from his lips to hear what you have to say
a fantasy Christ unclogged
here is quiet, into each corner.
Without danger
now continue first, to report.
§
…to nothing
…
I
we reach
weaker self
the sea,
we go
hear what
corner
your
report.
§
ME TOO
Another, what would you say? Red sun would
you name it, what happens to the sky if you
were here may it be some unpronounced light.
Apocalypsin wake, flooded tender to touch.
As me too. In general also surpassed to snow, much
too ever waking yet ignored. Fingers to the face
corroding sugars active on the shelf like palms
in a vacuum, each and most days stung, smoothed
and repeated. In general “‘lives pass on the same”’
ugh routines of engagement. Where is it plausible
to love yet still to love stretched and pinched say
somehow or go on, a collapsing push of sinews
who gives a fuck about the colour of the sky.
This has happened; is the AC current of his
wantage in character the palmful covering
sun. Do you not understand. So much gives out
behind in attribution. Simply spoke yet impossible
to describe how still I love you so much,
impact drained slack for a smile and plays on.
So quietly gather your effects and leave.