from Memory/Incision

Threatened. Narrative miscarried. Thighs agitated debate. Carcass architecture arrests you incumbent nude. Shutters thrust apart discharge. Drip grapefruit down your pubic bone. Abused pleasure mindscapes your safehouse. There idle jokers gag life preservers. Turpentine watercolor. Wake from drowning dream head beneath sheets. Fabric strands inhalation and a smashed back door. Perimeters of nosological thought volume everything that has happened between the shape of your interrupted body (edge of the bed)[1] and the consequence of skin. Emigrate abdomen, invented living. Precede umbilicus. This is where conception resembles artifice. Provisional membrane injured thread. Flush of ink and patterned sentiment. Formula is chemical process of integration.

Here in this intermission marginalia appropriates delicate space. Press firmly on perineum. Terrified by the demand for occupation Elle purchases potted ivy, conducting its various arms in a breathing frame around the living room. Stomach lining. This matter is territorial. Prosthetic p®ose shrieks incubation. Parasitical. Assertion is more temperate than museum. Invented domicile. Cloudburst. He lies while she lowers herself onto him. Breach absence, needle aligned eyelid. Headline reports 16’ boa constrictor living beneath suburban home foundation. Place hang your temporary casing. Your cunt casket sprung for summer. Like when Grandma Lynne would jar jam for a week in June. Eat with your fingers.

Text addresses. Fingerprint spliced telephone[2] digits measure temptation. Semen touchtone. “Call back in half hour.” Elle makes a hole in her pancake brings it to her cleft palate and wedges her tongue between the thinly cooked, battered fabric. Disseminate a maple glaze. Thick covering.

Almira Gulch. (Bring your broom-shaped dildo to bed) Hum tornado. Inescapable mechanical cackle horrors travel. Hear her anthem. Blizzard blows sideways facing angular predisposition. Elle and I watch through the bay window with popcorn and Southern Comfort. This gale. Trees sway zombies parading. We discuss hypothetical car accidents as a power line bucks the snowed-in road. Avert Dorothy the yellow brick house we’re in Elle; and I get high in the bathtub reading to each Other; articles on WWI facial masks children dissipate at first sight; unreadable face claims; dead daddy to disfigured (ceiling resembles eaten fingers under microscope) soldier moans initial tit grip; of “love of; my life” but to fuck your papier-mâché lover lose the glue and sun dried prune fingers clip roach. Cable television. “Hey man, this is a private residence.” Answering machine: good sell. Refrigerator stinks of must. Dog hair snarling in corner riles mud print webbed toes. Bed twists with skin. Garbage cans rant dilapidated curbside. “Where the fuck is the car key?” Mudslide eyes. Privately complain of violent spasms. Stick shift. You can’t go anywhere. Auntie Em oh Auntie Em leave your pig valves in a bucket for breakfast and black coffee, skin peeling off an eager mouth. Toto should have been a German Shepard. Nursery rhymes mirror addresser and addressee. The old woman in the shoe runs a fertility clinic. Shout obviously like a tourist protesting textual limitation. Camera flashed and I shot her again. Bloated. Ornamental. As a child I inserted Zorro’s horse Tornado’s tail into a box fan curious of result. His plastic ass glistened like the head of an upright cock. Tonight I will dream of a vagina fan hacking an upright tail with semen like little children on a playground slide gushing forward evermore. A space for monsters fused with iodine, a vibrant bleeding color, exhilarated body-bound thing; amputation.

Televisions follow Grey’s Anatomy—Meredith bawls in the bunkhouse “for anyone who stays up passed the official bedtime for mothers.”[3] Mystery novels frump nightstand—who done it? Pillow talk. Preface an event. My skin cannot accommodate this waiting room. This is yours. Build a medieval fort out of cardboard bricks. Enemy dentist. You are assigned touch. Fluoride treatment. But you get to pick a toothbrush. “I’ll kill ya, I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!!”[4] Bathtub. Psycho peaks through picture framed eyes. Back rub/between/shoulder/blades. Hack. Friday 13th drives a machete through Kevin Bacon’s bunk-fucked back. Leech. Suck fowl for all his marbles. Hip cum. Forceps are chopsticks. Placenta as curried shrimp. Sketched silhouettes interrogate strangers. You old Hitchcock. He Etch A Sketch(ed) a wrinkled rendition of his cock linked to an erratic ovum. Flick. Inhabit etched coal. Describe home: the place where your toothbrush is. No wait. Home is where your toilet reads. We fucked the stinking muck of barfly stain. Bubble gum lacerated quayside. Bus stop. Han Solo. Han Solo. I am Han Solo. A man with a jaw shaped like it was made to demolish skyscrapers perused The Buffalo News. The bench was warm and wet as piss. Aids prevention advertisement overhead glamorized a skimpy dressed red head. Superimposed graffiti jen has nice jugs underlined flippantly three times beneath her jutting nipples. She and the—got milk?girl—don’t look back. I imagine pouring paint buckets of squirrelly semen over the billboards. My Medusa.


[1] Hold and hide. When my father confiscated my pornography stash he left a torn page of a half-nude. Her eyes focused beyond the perimeter of reach. Lips pressed in discomfort. Yet more prominent is the illustration on its backside, a woman in bed fucking a plunger, her husband’s hairline split clutching his trousers with a hard-on the size of his briefcase.
[2] Full frontal stops and begins again. Amended audience.
[3] Bhanu Kapil’s definition of Mcdreamy in Urban Dictionary.
[4] Andrew Peterson—in the Sundowner—with the scizzors.