glory! : on my body, again. on the material world.

washer

Goodnight my love Remember me as you fall to sleep Fill your pockets with the dust and the memories That rises from the shoes on my feet I won't be back here Though we may meet again I know it's dark outside Don't be afraid Everytime I ever cried from fear Was just a mistake that I made Wash yourself in your tears And build your church On the strength of your faith Please Listen to me Don't let go Don't let this desperate moonlight leave me With your empty pillow Promise me the sun will rise again I too am tired now Embracing thoughts of tonight's dreamless sleep My head is empty My toes are warm I am safe from harm...

Thursday, February 29, 2024

on my body, again. on the material world.

in my mind these days are my organs sitting on top of each other and against my pelvic floor, i imagine my viscera glowing pinkish plastic red like the cough syrup i used to take as a child. i imagine the wrestling that goes on in there. and i say in there instead of in here because something still compels me to this strange compulsion, to think that its like an exodimensional mind that is connected to me through wrinkles and cavities within time and space, then through the sky and into my stem. they are, however, in here as i speak and since before i was born. and until i die, then after.

i can feel them squirm. i treat my internal world so badly. but it is me who i am trying to keep safe. they are as i am, their individual needs are not met so they hurt me, and mine are not either so i continue to deprive and punish them as i deem necessary. because thats what i need to do in the name of self preservation.

my womb, my reproduction, my centers are all corrupted and blemished by necrosis inside my head. inside my head, i smell of the disgusting sweetness of mold and toxic gas like an oven. i put my finger in my mouth and it feels hot. my insides are hot. every mouth on me, hot, wet, slippery, soft walls. if i removed my teeth, the mouths that held them would be the same. if i made a hole in my stomach, if i slit into my leg and i put my finger in it. all the same. its not about the erotic, its the erotic within the body. it is a sensual machine, made to suffer and be tricked into destruction with the allure of a promise of pleasure.

im a cold, frigid prude and i am cruel because i am so angry at this body. i wish i could love it. hated always my openings, never wanted to smile, never liked the idea of having holes within my own mass, some that would pierce me. i have a hole that pierces me that i cannot find and thus cannot fill. i am trapped in the body of an animal that is mine to work with but not mine to love. i hated my breasts, i wanted so bad and still want so bad to starve them into my ribs. hated my figure, loved my concave waist when it used to be concave and sank deep into my muscular tissue, sank into itself.

i feel my body yell and scream and want and even when i slap its little head and scold it for doing what it does it cannot stand still. its an abused cat that has reverted into kitten behaviors now that it feels death coming in near, bringing me toys, asking for play. i feel this pity but it also is so disgusting, makes me do disgusting things, begs for them, runs and tramples over me, blacks me out into the ether and by the time im back its too late and the deed is done, and im left with a bag of flesh and stray bones to take care of and put back together.

im still this and i will be until it dies, then i will stay here as i go under the shallow earth and will be there within each and every last maggot that fed on me only to do it all over again. at least them i can scream woeful, muted yells into my mouth and drag myself into an early grave, into the beak of a bird that will feed the flowers on my gave.

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sylvia plath, the bell jar

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Psalm 18: 6-11

In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies.