It’s all about suction.
I use a tight wad of paper to clean my spinning blade.
Small rips appear on it as the saw sucks it in,
I feel its draw, itself
a reminder
Or sign
Of what will happen to my hand, if I give it half a chance.
In other words:
The feeling that arises from a hunk
Tracing his fingertips over your flimsy shoulders-
I’m telling you.
It’s exactly the same
As the rapid rotations of a saw
That threatens to chop off your fingers.
(And yet! Every weekend it must be cleaned.
What is produced by the saw—
I want it to take my whole hand. )
<A special Cell
A chemical
A look
A hand
A nadir
A berghaus jacket>
I knew that I had changed when I allowed the soft warm air to bloom with sound/
Slight panting noises,
I couldn’t smell anything to speak of, just
The only thing that passed my nose was the thickness of the air.
I’m torn and in awe of the lack of scent all across the place.
I think a 6 pack is like,
Smooth and striated space, or
Whatever works me out
Whatever gives itself over to
Be stared at and gorged upon.
It is difficult to hide in plain yet sensorially obstructed sight.
I’m drawn to the fake camo wall,
Far too flimsy
Useless wall somehow.
Yet so insulated was its sound and presence.
Insulated sound is
Exactly the colour and shape of an old orange street light.
I’m a contortion, totally complete
Fully formed in that
Amniotic cave-
To name it that is to invade, in a way:
The point is:
To look at anything constitutes a total invasion of its form.
It is to litter empty space with sprites and afterimages/
To properly squeeze myself into the tightest of spaces
And howl about it afterwards.
11:56 am • 15 May 2024