Your Wife Will Never Find (Out)

[[Open Door Policy]]

Resting Snake

[[PUBLISHED VIA INPATIENT PRESS WEBWORKS :: JUNE 24th, 20114]]

http://www.inpatientpress.com/

Opal is writing from inside a metal locker.  Pencil, magnetized.  If you lick that . It’s poison. Lick that.

Twin sisters, blindfolded, writing each others’ autobiographies.

Her antagonists clustered outside the closed panel door waiting for Opal to react.  A vocalization, physical impact with materials.  An autobiography?  They held weapons, though none of the girls knew the reason.  Hoping for sex with the same-dressed others, the pack held still in sweat:

“Is the experiment working?  Are we violent? Oh shit, we will never be in trouble.”

She was lucky to have escaped Yesterday.  Content within her capsule, watched closet, Opal wrote.

DREAM SEQUENCE

The heath teacher, Mrs. Vanhoy, directed her pupils to a page in their science manuals on Darwin’s theory of Whatever that morning before stepping outside to light a cigarette & call her wife on the school telephone.  The wife was thin and lonely: gorgeous under a brunette cape, always shy and tugging on her wife’s floral blouse for attention.   Mrs. Vanhoy was hushing her on the telephone while the girls unraveled themsevles inside.

All children, plainly, indulge in homosexuality.  There was a black snake resting in a plant beside the disciplinary cork board.  The health teacher has tampons in her purse.

“I hair!” – a pupil

By way of scripts, the girls knew instinctually to chew on their braids and think about their hypothetical boyfriends during class.  If one pupil engaged in heterosexual misconduct the others would ____ which does not happen at school.  School is where girls braille cocks; remove boy smirk, amputated face in a skirt.  Spit from the paintbrush hair knots oozed onto inky photographs of monkeys while they practiced ignoring each other sexually.  Videos of white erections played on the screen at the front of the classroom.  Everyone was vomiting into a desk.  Erect red as well.  Everyone was vomiting into a yellow backpack. Coping with the urge to either become men or to die, the females tipped over their desks, sprinted into the narrow hallway and disappeared within a large bathroom.  While stampeding, a girl with red hair slipped on the wet hallway tiles, was trampled and spit upon by the others who felt obligated to be men.  Feeble she on the floor.

Warm the she, chewing a red braid between parted lips, now bloody.

Mrs. Vanhoy recorded the action with a hand-held video camera through the window while dragging a wet cigarette.  She couldn’t believe the Theory actually worked and neither could her wife!  Later that evening they would sip cocktails on the porch  & discuss the exciting possibility that red heads might become extinct.  Mrs. Vanhoy ran out of cigarette. Mrs. Vanhoy lit another cigarette in the center of her empty classroom.

Knees serpentine bleeding, the child’s hair cleaved thick across a cold beige canvas.  Twitching, the animal displayed a stained collar and was otherwise bare.  Her skin was milky shaven, excepting the scalp, downy like the plant snake.  A silver chain leash pulled taught and leading into the girls’ restroom placed pressure on her vocal chords. The twin elicited a lovely mewl for her health teacher, Mrs. Vanhoy.

“I have a vulnerable part!” – twin, nearly dead on the hallway floor

Two caged balloons were leaking air, hissing into the hallway, alighting in a dusty corner.  Next week’s spelling bee was cancelled because all of the students were manic and obsessed with learning to accept penis-in-vagina sex. Sipping air, the girl was dying quickly. A totem of skulls (lifeless) emerged from around the bathroom wall to watch the animal expire.  Twelve eyes, swollen and moist, blinked toward the bleeding accident.  They tried desperately to feel sorry, glancing shyly towards each others’ breasts.

“I want to be naked in the hallway…”

 no one located the orator.

Blue light from the classroom projection framed her in a rectangle, contained. Meticulous sculpture.  Red carpet beneath her skin was electric, was erecting, was a living form.  Spittle gel rivulet ran red rippled rejection into merging ruby rug & petrified voyeurs were drooling in the doorway.  The school began to spin slowly, falling into a large metal drain like maple syrup.

Swallowing hard, the abusers parted for the animal’s twin sister to pass. They were not in trouble.

Opal emerged from a black plastic stall in white stockings and a harsh red dress, barefooted, gripping a blade.  They held quiet through her hateful white spit, spewing across the walls, rejected from the erections that their bodies could not support.  No one was crying.  No one was coming. Opal had red hair.

The pack devoted silence as their weeping sister vanished into the hallway

Health teacher lounged smoking tall in the doorway, backlit by the erections.  Holding the phone receiver out, the woman captured the massacre sonically in honor of her wife at home who was drunk and anorexic on the love seat and adoring every minute of it.

Twin shaver crept in black, gripping the wooden hasp of her instrument.  Her child on the ground had wept through the process of her own dying, begging for the company of a sister or at least to be drunk for the passing.  Opal’s toes edged beside the exacting line of projection light, remaining in darkness, cautious not to infect the sister’s illumination. All of this was very beautiful.

The red dress sister, Opal, crouched (bird prince) to the floor to sniff her identical.  Spider creaking, amputating strips of gold from the stiff sibling’s scalp, placing the ore into her foamy mouth and swallowing hard.  No one was watching.  No one was crying.  Everyone was coming.

Opal stood, waiting for her sister to eat. Mrs. Vanhoy ran out of cigarette. Mrs. Vanhoy lit another cigarette in the center of her empty classroom.

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Opal is writing from inside a metal locker.  Pencil, magnetized.  Opal was selected by jealousy.

Twin sisters, blindfolded, writing each others’ autobiographies.

Her antagonists clustered outside the closed panel door waiting for Opal to react.  A vocalization, physical impact with materials.  An autobiography?  They held weapons, though none of the girls knew the reason.  Hoping for sex with the same-dressed others, the pack held still in sweat:

“Is the experiment working?  Are we violent? Oh shit, we will never be in trouble.”

She was lucky to have escaped Yesterday.  Content within her capsule now, watched on the other side, Opal wrote.

DREAM SEQUENCE

The heath teacher, Mrs. Vanhoy, directed her pupils to a page in their science manuals on Darwin’s theory of whatever that morning before stepping outside to light a cigarette & call her wife on the school telephone.  Her wife was thin and lonely: gorgeous under a brunette cape, always shy and tugging on her wife’s floral blouse for attention.   Mrs. Vanhoy was hushing her on the telephone while girl unravelled themselves inside.

All children, plainly, indulge in homosexuality.  There was a black snake resting in a plant beside the disciplinary cork board.  The health teacher has tampons in her purse.

“I hair!” – a pupil

By way of scripts, the girls knew instinctually to chew on their braids and think about their hypothetic boyfriends during class.  If one pupil engaged in heterosexual misconduct the others would fuck themselves, which does not happen at school.  School is where girls braille cocks; remove boy smirk, amputated face in a skirt.  Spit from the paintbrush hair knots oozed onto inky photographs of monkeys while they practiced ignoring each other sexually.  Videos of white erections played on the screen at the front of the classroom.  Everyone was vomiting into their desk.  Erect red as well.  Everyone was vomiting in their backpack. Coping with the urge to either become men or to die, the females tipped over their desks, sprinted into the narrow hallway and disappeared into a large bathroom.  While stampeding, a girl with red hair slipped on the wet hallway tiles, was trampled and spit upon by the others who felt obligated to be men.  Feeble she on the floored.

Warmth was the she, chewing a red braid between parted lips.

Mrs. Vanhoy recorded the action with a hand-held video camera through the window while dragging a wet cigarette.  She couldn’t believe the Theory actually worked and neither could her wife!  Later that evening they would sip cocktails on the porch  & discuss the exciting possibility that red heads might become extinct.  Mrs. Vanoy ran out of cigarette. Mrs. Vanoy lit another cigarette in the center of her empty classroom.

Knees serpentine bleeding, the child’s hair cleaved thick across a cold beige canvas.  Twitching, the animal was displaying a stained collar and was otherwise bare.  Her skin was perfectly shaven, excepting the scalp, downy like the plant snake.  A silver chain leash pulled taught and leading into the girls’ restroom placed adequate pressure on the twin’s vocal chords, eliciting a steady mewl.

“I have a vulnerable part!” – twin, nearly dead on the hallway floor

Two caged balloons were leaking air, hissing into the hallway, alighting in a dusty corner.  Next week’s spelling bee was cancelled because all of the student were idiotic and obsessed with learning to accept penis-in-vagina sex. Sipping air, the girl was dying quickly. A totem of girl heads emerged from around the bathroom wall to watch the animal expire.  Twelve eyes, swollen and moist, blinked toward the mewing.  They tried desperately to feel sorry, glancing shyly towards each others’ breasts.

“I want to be naked in the hallway…”

 no one located the orator.

Blue light from the classroom projection framed her pale form in a rectangle, kept it inside.  Red carpet beneath her skin was electric, was erecting, was a living form.  Spittle river ran red rippled rejection into merging ruby rug & petrified voyeurs were drooling in the doorway.  The school began to spin slowly, falling into a large metal drain.

Swallowing hard, the abusers parted for the animal’s twin sister to pass by.  Opal emerged from a black plastic stall in white stockings and a harsh red dress, barefooted, gripping a blade.  They held quiet through her hateful white spit, spewing across the walls, rejected from the erections that their bodies could not support.  No one was crying.  No one was coming.

The pack devoted silence as their weeping red sister vanished into the dark hallway

Health teacher lounged smoking tall in the doorway, backlit by the erections.  Holding the phone receiver out, the woman captured the massacre sonically in honor of her wife at home who was drunk and anorexic on the love seat and adoring every minute of it.

 

Twin shaver crept in black, gripping the wooden hasp of her instrument.  Her child, on the ground, had wept through the process of her own dying, begging for the company of a sister or atleast to be drunk for the passing.  Toes edged beside the exacting line of projection light, remaining in darkness cautious not to infect the sister’s illumination.

The red dress sister, Opal, crouched birdly to the floor to sniff her identical.  Spider creaking, amputating strips of gold from the stiff sibling’s scalp, placing the ore into her foamy mouth and swallowing hard.  No one was watching.  No one was crying.  Everyone was coming.

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM?

waiting for her sister to eat.

Fetish a hole.

Librarian’s wet skirt, used to be khaki

The objects she hides in her sleeves

Pink sweater, cashmere with stains.

Pet obituaries

Jumping naked on the gold love seat with dirty feet

Inherited the gin!

Telling a child to calm down

I provide false reason

Drinks poison

Abandoned the gin!

O-Man, I am the transgendered second son

Drool on the toilet seat

Thin arm

Busted up knuckles

Busted up knuckles

Update your ipod to include more lesbian folk rock

Sticky bird eats a brazilian nut;

dead father figure makes racist comment about brazilian nuts

I vogued you in the ballroom

Melba called.  She despises art students.  Purchased a new tennis skirt, eating a grapefruit in it.

Thin knee, malnourished genitals, mother’s knee got a little wet

kind of like the intellectuals in khaki

and their literature too

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

O: “I need you, sister”

R [from under the sofa]: “Mother?”

O: “I need you, sister”

R [from inside an ice chest]: “Are you home, Mother?”

O: “I need you, sister”

R [from her unmade bed]: “My teeth ache.  I can catch them on my own”

O: “I need you, sister”

R [from inside a dress]: “Don’t you feel embarrassed?”

O: “I need you, sister”

 

Writer:

A child was walking home on the beach.  Her suit was choreographed in color and shape, composed by elderly hands with grey stitching.  Red slacks, crammed with white shirt, were ballooned and hovering around the girl’s ankles.  Sand poured from each cuff in rhythmic distaste: she went swimming in the ocean without permission. without shoes, without underpants.  The leather sandals were ruined, abandoned on an exposed rock in low-tide waiting to be submerged in the patterned swell.  White foamed caps of the Atlantic were father’s tongues, eager to eat an element of his offspring.  eager for tasting his sex, formatted in the child as DNA and pink sea salt.  Her underpants?  She mourned them by smacking her own wet face.

Someone in the distance was poorly playing a drum, which the girl hated.  The walker rewet her chin with drool.

The beach was threatening nighttime, barbed hooks sunken into the walker’s thumbs with clear lines dragging parcels of seaweed behind as she moved. A family of dungeness crabs were being transported in the nests.  Clicked bubbles faintly to the walker,

O: “I need you, sister”

R [from inside a red suit] “Mother came home early from work!  There is a plate of warm cookies waiting for us at          home!  We are cold but the cookies and mother’s kindness will make everything perfect like real happiness!  Like amputated emotions!”

She, walker, age 7, stitched into a suit, began to feel afraid of the darkness.  Knowing that the crabs were relying on her for safety, she had created a lie about Mothers and fresh food and amputated emotions.  She started to sweat.

R [now a Mother]: “I need you, sister”

O: “come home, sister”

The family of crustaceans (dependents), placated, felt like a bunch of GENIUSES over this free ride they were getting from a dumb girl without underpants.  Bubbles leaked from one crab’s mouth to the next as the organs chewed warm cookies that mother had made when she came back to the nest early from work.

little walker walked.

 skin burned in salt as orange light

adored the sand. home

birthed visible odors through a crooked roof pipe.

her family was inside enjoying their emotions over a plate of warm cookies

a pair of white underpants were hung on a rack by the fire

neat rows of leather sandals too

 

Little Walker, R [from under the couch, stroking a dead fish]: “I’m crying again”

Opal, erect in the corner.
Red chair broken, spilled bowl beneath
Still whole
A steaming hot mess protruding genitals
Un-sistered, Opal devours my affection as a rivalry.

Engorged, full of emaciation, I cast Opal in the main role. Sisters growing thinner together – it is so sublime. Our mother agreed!

O: “Can you believe it? The more he eats, the smaller he gets!” [kisses my cheek & flips over a table]

My sister’s despicable lover (called, “Vincent”, phonetically similar to “vomit” or “prom-night virgin”) slid up to the curb in a silver can. He uses her to fuck. He makes her run. His daddy bought that space between her thighs.

R: “Your skirt is falling down. I’ll be throwing up downstairs when you get back”

Vincent is the first thief Id met besides Opal herself, who had pinched one bronze coin from my beside drawer each morning since we were old enough to earn an hourly cent in Father’s caged backyard. Mother handed us pennies: small boys, knocking pecans from a tree, picking the prisms in front of the television at night until we bled – we laughed hysterically when Opal snuck a taste of beer.

Charlene (our next door neighbor): “My dog is a bitch!!!”

Men were paid to rape a steel rod into the nut tree’s core that autumn. Opal watched their hammers go at it and got really fucking horny; she started vaulting all over the couch. The springs were screaming, contemplating giving her a poke themselves. I saw the arousal happen while glancing up her skirt on each upward bound, right before her soft descent. The hem is always a curtain, only sometimes being drawn. Of course the rapists agreed.

The lookout window was a glass box perfumed with the gutted trout I hid under the sofa during the previous year. I carried it there at night, heard its skull slap on the burnt-orange linoleum. Laying beside my fish under the sofa, it became apparent that I was being rejected again. The television screen threw silver light onto a scale, which I’d left in tact on my fish’s dull nose. I wept into its slatted scum gills, fingered its warm slit belly, read the Braille of its fossil spine. The tail was still moist

I helped the fish close its eyes while stroking its anus (mouth)

R: “Hush, baby, Opal returns soon. You’ll rot here while she solves her violent arousal with self-loathing. Me? I will exercise. In decaying, you will become this room. When you’re the room, I can come in you whenever I want to.”

Sunrise, a brass bell rang in the hallway. My boots were on, laced together in the center and I fell while scrambling to the toilet to vomit. Lips held onto the cold tile, some red started to come out and touch my cheek. Each little ceramic fleck was hexagonal, accidentally white, pasted, unaroused, sublime. I’m an accident always happening, spilling under the flipped table, hated, cleaned up by a woman.

Years later, we sit together & obsess over our wedding photos.

Our breasts in dry white paint. (you missing one)

Layers of taffeta muffling stiff cocks that called to mind the texture of hot sushi rice.

all squished up in a pocket of crispy seaweed wrappers

& cupped sexually in my cold black-gloved hand.

 

With her, I embarrass blankly

 (crumpled ball of used tin foil shuffling behind us like a child).  In the literal, sense, we bled actually.  Yes, the real stuff, fakers.

welcome to my home, an uncapped bottle of neon soda.  we have six maids, all of whom I fuck whenever I please.  They are adorable, incapable, posses high Body Mass Index measurements, scratch my flaking back with precision…whenever I please.

Perfect pussy pervades simply because it is pussy.  One woman is scratching my back at the moment while I fix myself a lemon cocktail.  Her nails: breaking skin.  My feet are in cold water.

Science is proving that it is possible for women to own rooms as men without cocks —

Science is proving that it is possible for a woman become a chauvinist.

Science is proving that this is not attractive.

Science is proving that you should kill me.

Science is not proving that I don’t get my way.

 

My masculinity is painfully experimentally painful [tight pants I glove myself into before school].  A round dish on a white square table brought into focus under a thick circular telescope.  Scientists are inherently feminine because they experience excrement from a distance through elegant objects (phallic in shape, which they grip tightly to arrest blood inside).  Requiring distance from inferior subjects, scientists can not help but plan a future where masculinity has ceased altogether.

Scientist to Me, a masculine trash-eater inside a petri dish, eating trash:

“Inside of your circular cage, organisms (cocks: YOU ) are snarfing up refuse.  You are masculinity, little snarfer.  You survive by consuming absolute trash!  The trash is refuse from your superior female counterparts (milky ejaculate from a maid’s pussy: US).  Stuff that is no longer privileged, a relic of its own expulsion – only the moment of it. It’s biohazard, the ejaculate.  Science proves this because I said it did.”

Scientists call the process of trash-production “orgasm” — a convulsion wherein a gardenia blooms, unforced.

I know nothing about trash-production (moment of exquisite power) because I am scum, which science proves because I am masculine which science proves  and am able only to get my way by way of force and by pouting with an insecure erection.  When you take my force (trap me in a little glass circle) all I do is eat trash.  And get fat.  And slobber onto my cock with lips like empty sails.

And think over and over about when I was still inside of her — that I’d never felt closer to a flavored sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait of a Woman’s Hand While Seated Beside Me at the Ballet

Her hand, the Whale bone.  Opposable ivory tusk threaded onyx piano keys.  Tide-whipped manipulator type-written into yellow dusk.  The hand is, in fact, a scar.  A deliverance, brushing pure white cats from a red shawl before the ballet entered, the hand was pregnant with the malnourishment of childhood.  Beneath its shawl, the hand was breathing.  Beneath the sleeping ivory, the knife’s edge shoulder sawed.  She took a moment to contemplate the sharpness of her own joints — the splintered white weapon was comprised of unimaginably small parts, conjoined with unimaginably small metal screws.  With a slight shrug, the recondite gun cocked, preparing a gentle silver bullet.

Opal dressed herself this evening and reunited her bones.  The mirror, framed in golden images of a fruit bounty, reminded the woman of her most favorite spoon. Her most favorite father.  A black dress binding her ribcage unaccessible, she reflected in the glass and approached.  Purring softly, Opal punched the mirror and reunited her bones!  It was  a fight!  Then, Opal left the house without telling a single secret soul.

The naked father’s ghost’s discarded sheet, idling beside my knee while seated in the velvet dark hall.  It asks an indiscernible question.  With masted posture, we sat in a suspended balcony during drawn-bow silence and I was sweating a decade-deep swamp..  Fat golden railing contained She and Me, forcing our forearms nearer and nearer while balancing on a thin wooden strip.  She told me about her schooling and the pavement chains. I had only spoons for eyes, poorest baby girl sitting in her own warm sex fluids beside a bonded king.  I could not not not not come for ______

We drew our knees into our chests, fraught with closeness to our too-thin ribs, we werent’ twins because I already have one and she is too exquisite for replication.  I wanted to fuck Opal like a sister, our identical “you-know-whats” kissing in the way that most think lesbians kiss flaccidly with hatred of our respective cockless corpses.  I despise anyone who is not a lesbian, though I myself am not one inherently.  I am a dyke, which many men find sexually attractive.  I look forward to breaking their hearts ((cocks)) by vomiting whenever one reveals feelings for me (which serves no pussy because I frankly want nothing in it)

If you call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.

If you don’t call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.

You’re in trouble, Opal.

You’re in trouble, everyone, because you are going to be aflame you flamed enflamed bastards who are my enemies, I’m not one of  you, we are separate, we don’t know each other!!

YOU ARE NOT A LESBIAN AND NEITHER AM I BECAUSE I DONT WANT TO DIE

The hand portrait I wrote: still.

A symphony is warming, playing tide-warped green chords and tuning to one another while I am obsessed with the woman beside me (she is wearing a red shawl, hiding a white hand beneath. I see its breathing pattern and suddenly feel conscious of my of imperfect body)  The ballet begins itn 2 minutes.  Opal refuses to reach for my hand.  I grow angry because I think I know her reason

too ______ to accept her brass affection.

 

“Die” is what I scream, though I understand her soft motives.  I want to give her orgasm.

 

Two cannons, Opal and Me.  An elipsis upon us both, barometered in sweaty shorts, WE’RE LESBIANS, THANKS, AND YOU ARE NOT INVITED TO THE BEACH.  Thought between you and you, I’m sure she would not get in the car with me alone.

I’m only lesibian when men need to be sent away.  Which is always.  I’m always a lesbian, even when I’m not.  Don’t fucking light a god damn candle already dumb boy with your thinking cock, I’ll kill.

 

Opal tomorrow.  She’s standing in the corner  after an opera bathroom-break alone, sniffing paint, about to let me fuck her anyways and that’s none of your business, dear.  Opal winks and wags a finger at me.

I even forgot about her hand, two fingers wrapping around my small-woman thing and about to murder me  with a cold wave of finger wrapping around my and about to murder me cold wave of her hand around my woman thing small two fingers, I even forgot my small-woman thing!  She won’t hold me later, but with no-cock-love it is worth it.

A red curtain, center-sent, splitting down the middle like a

___________________________ thing

The Opera is beginning.  Our forearm skins have accepted kissing.  The golden lights blow onto a few bodies that everyone wishes were their own unoccupied corpses: acting! Opal is there beside me in the still dark, hating me the whole time, yet tilting back in a red velvet folding theatre chair, with knees nearing her breasts as if she knew I knew.

 

I contracted a staff infection when my lover paid a visit last week.  I wasn’t expecting her and remained preserved in my bedroom with the curtains drawn.

Wading onto split pavement, Opal removed her legs from the cream leather car, unravelling an ever apologetic torso.  She was black wrapped, craning a pipe neck to conduct a revelatory symphony of vertebrae. Her throat plucked like a loud harp.  Clutched in her right hand, Opal held a small pair of red rubber cleaning gloves.  Birds predicted the gloves to metronome her outer thigh by sticking and hopping when she walked.  With slurping delight like the one time we made love in her childhood crib.

Opal whimpered, vibrating her jawline during closed eyes.

Said to nothing, “I remember nothing.”

[Creatures know when they are electric, so therefore Opal…]

Her left master finger, calcified into extension and sheathed in a white handkerchief, drew the lady forward. When in motion, Opal had grace enough to interrupt a pedestrian and set him to wondering who taught the woman to walk in the first place.  “As if she’d learned aquatically”, he’d whisper to nothing, now keenly aware of the position of the flaccid cock drooping inside his golfing shorts.

Opal snapped her dentures twice.

Opal clicked her red heels.

Opal fell into my flower garden.

Opal killed a man in a burgundy cardigan sweater.

Opal sipped tepid water from a glass on my porch in May.

Mounting the front deck, Opal drove two peg-nail heels into the rotting wooden slats. She imagined the ground, submitting; the white porch railing, observing; the black metal mailbox, hating; the crooked brick (key-hider), recoiling; the entire month of May, eulogizing, sipping elixir with a pair of moist ribbon lips, removed from securing a blond ponytail atop her pill-boxed summertime scalp.  During closed eyes, she reached a finger for the doorbell.  The corners of her lips parting.

When we were lovers, Opal asked if I would contain her during the month of May by consuming that cocktail each night in bed while wearing a pair of black spandex shorts.  I said yes (had become already drunk and red and swollen and all that). I had captured myself in harsh nets and was unable to escape.  She would never bind me, the perfect faggot.  The woman walked aquatic into the bathroom and emerged, wet, and holding a glass.  Beaming, she padded naked to my bedside and lit a tall candle.  My vision, a vase in splintered kaleidoscopes, was shape-shifting and becoming violently hued with each timed sip of liquid.  Drunk next to her again.

I’M AT THE BEACH SUNNING IN THE HOT HOT SUN VERY WARM AND ALONE THE OCEAN IS MY BES——

                      Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a soft cloth.

Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a ssssssoft ____ oth

Hush me, drip sssssss ___oth

I plunged deeper to the fabric to hide my  {BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK}

{on stage, I become fearfully comfortable}

 

{MY EYES OPEN}

Porch Next May:

her finger alit and ghost-pressed an illuminated yellow circle.  The hand was unnerved, detached from its female carrier.  It was a conch shell, twice evacuated by cursed animals, wearing the slightest scintillation of pink afterbirth.  The instrument smelled of garden weeds and wore a glove of hot saliva that refused to drip.

Three sibling black birds perched in a berried holly bush.  They provided me with all of these pornographic details while I hid inside the house.  I didn’t see any colors.  The birds are authors.  The birds might be writers.  I was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts and weeping about my dead daddy when the animals broke through a glass window.  The shards sliced my cheeks as I shot my face through that broken thing—

 unscented_block

 

I saw the finger, I slapped my own cheek, twice with an open palm. My face did not even turn.  Had already become drunk and red and swollen and all that. I never scream at myself.

God damn it, Opal on my porch with an extended plaster finger in motion.

Who taught her to walk in the first place?

 

 

Eliza could not be convinced.  Blonde, staid, true, composed of thickening blood and pupil dilation, the word “woman” means only to deny.  Never to provide.  I envy those who never provide — providing is how I broke my left thumb because I was fucking a woman with my thumb harder than I ought.  How my back compressed into a crooked snake. Reason for my self-abuse, which feels mostly like orgasming in secret merely inches away from my unconcious twin sister.

 The word does not matter because it is a word.  Ill kiss “no” – anise-scent, post-coital drone, intononsense, my nonsense is a sibling draped deep in 3 red kimonos, red lip stick of equal ire and murdering me with sex..  Imagine my sister as a virgin.  Imagine, now, me stealing the virgin Mary away on the back of my black and cruel motorcyle which I don’t have because I’m much too afraid of speed and anything but warmth and the back of my lover’s hand speeding quick through the wind toward the skin of my earlobe.  Some people knows me as a pussy and I cannot deny it.

My lover is a woman.  I am a woman.  We both have pussies.  We

both have vaginas.  I provide her orgasms by licking her clitoris and gently penetrating her vagina with my fingers.
I would never want a reader to be unclear on this process.
ohhhhhhhh  anti-Him, my hidden syllable
It’s a skeleton key, no.   besides it is not. This hair is in my mouth now, growing more poignant with flavor and magnifying poison, expanding with spit heat.  Great with it in June, I have not glimpsed my hair in seven years.  Looking at it so curled is pornographic and makes me want to cut myself.  I think cutting myself is childish, but I am not sure, this poem is a terrible mistake  yet Ive been instructed not to be sorry so I am glad that I wrote it even though I might not be.  the only real  memory I retain is of my mother, wider than tall, strolling away from my hytersic soul inside of a church on Monday mornings.  Mommy, don’t go or I will die
when devils take my meaningless intonation AWAY from Me, I play the part of Angry.  I scream yes!
“Yes” means draw men nearer to the dangerous parts of my self. this is intentional because I want to kill them with the gun I’ve hidden behind my feminine neck which I cannot believe is feminine. The word does not matter because it is a word.  I think cutting myself.  Myself thinks
Cutting.  Pupils are dilating.
You read that observe high-tide clit swell.  This is a particularly pervert.
A glass fell onto the ceiling upon writing pervert.  I write pervert and glass fell onto ceiling, her floor.  A litter box for the tuxedoed cat jumped one precise inch when the glass fell and I jumped one precise inch in my chair downstiars, sloshing my cocktail onto a pair of synthetic running shorts, though mostly bare skin.  The glass was full of air which is an erotic substance.  Liquid was flowing the color of Me, staining the carpet below the color of cream wallapper stripped during  sweltering July in North Carolina.  Daddy made me do it.
An Easter cactus screams in the greenhouse, mimicking the odd shape of my   _______
An Easter Cactus: “I am trying new things.  Do you feel sorry for me?”
My Self: “yes, of course, baby, everything will be ok.
Word rolls off my tongue and god damn if it were only more than a word.  What color am I inside?  Cut to me to find out though never tell my mother who would worry terribly and probably revoke my very sacred drivers license.