I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll’s body.
Sickness begins here: I am the dartboard for witches.
Only the devil can eat the devil out.
In the month of red leaves I climb to a bed of fire.
Sylvia Plath, witch burning
Nail me to you. I will ride you like a nightmare.
Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body
how are you feeling in ancient September
I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway
how can you
you were made in the image of god
I was not


I am inside someone
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell
what fouled tunes come in
to his breath. Love his
wretched women.
Slits in the metal, for sun. Where
my eyes sit turning, at the cool air
the glance of light, or hard flesh
rubbed against me, a woman, a man,
without shadow, or voice, or meaning.
This is the enclosure (flesh,
where innocence is a weapon. An
abstraction. Touch. (Not mine.
Or yours, if you are the soul I had
and abandoned when I was blind and had
my enemies carry me as a dead man
(if he is beautiful, or pitied.
It can be pain. (As now, as all his
flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or
pain. As when she ran from me into
that forest.
                Or pain, the mind
silver spiraled whirled against the
sun, higher than even old men thought
God would be. Or pain. And the other. The
yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They
are withered yellow flowers and were never
beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say
‘beauty.’ Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The
slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences.

Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh
or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls
empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh
or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly.
Where the God is a self, after all.)
Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh,
white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun.
It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton
you recognize as words or simple feeling.
But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,
given to love.
It burns the thing
inside it. And that thing


I. Fear

bleating broken bare boned
skin held together with epoxy; with ligatures
what wants to pull apart when the body is no longer of service
what falls into disuse as soon as blood stops circulating

(the mass spread before we could catch it
we’re sorry
maybe you need some time alone
here’s someone you can call
they should be able to assist you)

II. Isolation

lament for the ICU
lament for the gathering sky
lament for masturbation
lament for holidays
lament for morphine
lament for making no sense
lament for aphasia

III. Choking Hazards

swollen tongue cotton rags
too many syllables in the throat
breath held in the chest fluid into lungs
medical implements used for the going-over

IV. The Body

what has gone unnoticed for years
what has given us no reason to complain
where is the ripcord the safety manual
why can’t the dismissal be temporary
the weight of weight
final acts an untidy separation

V. Removal

before going under
we all laugh the drunken laugh
of the soon to be sliced open

god gloats upon Her stunning flesh. Upon
the rechings of Her green body among
unseen things, things obscene (Whose fingers young

the caving ages curiously con)

—but the lunge of Her hunger softly flung
over the gasping shores
leaves his smile wan,
and his blood stopped hears in the frail anon

the shovings and the lovings of Her tongue.

god Is The Sea. All terrors of his being
quake before this its hideous Work most old
Whose battening gesture prophecies a freeing

of ghostly chaos
in this dangerous night
through moaned space god worships God—
where chaste stars writhe captured in brightening fright)
e. e. cummings
Tears were warm, and girls were beautiful, like dreams. I liked movie theaters, the darkness and intimacy, and I liked the deep, sad summer nights.
Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

if u look closely??/


if u look closely??/

God, you taste so good when the room starts to spin.
Bits and Pieces, #2 // K.