laughing At The empty center

Lover is back and comes quickly to the bed. What is more important than the sex is the hellos we say in between and the sleep we have in between where neither of us doze well, but we say nothing because being wrapped in arms and being overly warm is probably better. We’ve been told that it's better than complaining or kicking him out to sleep alone. Several pretentious novels are laid by my corner-wall bed in the shoebox. We are mice in this hole with sharp front teeth. He bites my teeth cause we joke around. We’re little jokesters. Yes yes yes. Laugh laugh laugh I live to laugh to make other people laugh to quickly consume the center. Then when they ask why is the center empty? Why can we hold nothing or laugh anymore? The crumbs of the center are all over my face and discarded in my pockets. I don’t live for this or that anymore, not the concepts or acts but the inbetweens and devoured centers. I am low on the wheel of incarnation. I know cause I’m eating it from the inside out and sapping Jack’s energetic pulsations and he doesn’t really notice cause I’m doing it so well and making him laugh so much. 

twilight from doctor gossip

Grease which a skullcap covers is the feeling. Stalking the waves and servers of the old for reassurance of the shit and the gutter. And I can’t remember the right words and god I hate when I can’t remember words. I will never be like Barnes who Winterson and Eliot liked and downright admired. And jesus, I’m sick of feeling and talking about the undersigned, the sundry. So let’s play a game:

Do the twist. Fuck in the morning and man-make the lake on the bed with small islands. Bask until the third alarm and I stay to rub my face. Thin walls with nothing active inside them, but she hears us and asks us to quiet. We turn pink and things harden. Lean over french poet cause I can see your butt crack and its sapping you of all your authority. Your author bio is silly. Is that what you want people to think of you? Overserious and warm mid-forties french poet? What? Ok now jerk and splay and actually contort because we’re playing that game!  Grease the skullcap so it slides, so it leaves thin residue on the hair and back and bent over butt crack. Now slowly palm the unnamed flowers from the worst shrub on campus and consider the nature of drug. Consider him smoking weed again and what that would do for his constitution. Tell him it wouldn’t be good and encourage him to be good. You layer your words in grease. You get hungry so you melt butter in a pan and mix it with cheese and milk? What would you dip in it? A sinuous protein of some kind, most likely. You’re eating ham again and loving it. Grown up Mary Jelly Girl, have you considered the night? Have you considered the night by its division from day? From twilight? From dawn?

been a while, sorry edie

Here’s something I need my old lover to know: you are the goblin who gave my soul beauty. Husband—I don’t mean the word for its commitment but rather its manipulation—husband your water fed the descending pools at the Vale of Cashmere till at some point in the last ten years it went still, eutrophied, and was drained altogether. I am tired of your algae and I am tired of being mounted on a spike on the long meadow. 

Here’s something I need my new lover to know: you are so uncomplicated that I question everything. On Saturday while I was on acid and you weren’t I needed to mount the ball back into your septum before I damaged myself. I have fallen into a comfortable love-routine with you. Love-routine? Lay in bed and stencil magnets, lose at chess, watch you leave unceremoniously without prolonged kisses. Your maturity makes me feel toddling, it makes me feel like you are slipping right through me but then you are there. temporary Husband—I use the term lightly and kindly for you—you should probably find a corner for yourself on this square-mile earth where you can sit away from me, cause I will eat up my own soul which I was told to find beautiful and to love so much.