all the guns possible to dispossess myself to the last eyelash
and dry, streaming skin storm, flashing raw in the mirror
across a face of topical cream that didn't take. eyes are clicking, revolved
by lenses: without sleep this is just a career of counting down.
all your idols are aging, the way all carnivorous flesh hugely does,
as earthworm-things digest the Planet into their own ungendered
babies; pink, tubular humans wriggling dumbly by each other,
making an incongruent skin much too small for the Body to wear.
here, i might make a point for myself within the god-riddled schedule,
why not find an aim for the grading, grating time, all the counting inevitably
against you. all the cures for teenagerism would fill thousands of orange
prescribed containers. but
where is my sleep that i had left just there on the pillow,
or had it smoked away, leaving me infertile and the lonely heaving mass of unmade bed all to ourselves. after all, there is no pleasure in life but for eating yourself to sleep, all our relentless jaws gnawing stubbornly down to the nubs and then, eventually, a very realistic mouth-shaped plastic.
see, i will rest when i am all rubber pink and smooth, easily inserted into
our detergent-scented country (all sanitary but for the crevices we can't get at and attractive in the sense of ergonomic plastic lemons).
but all in all, the guns aren't very much i could have done it on my own.
© Copyright 2017 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.
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