self creation academe #5

piece by piece. from hand to arm to the philosophy of the lesbians. i created you. gave birth to a pageant and roiling toiling farm limbs of your water crest hyacinths. in the image of the transgendered. in the image of the mirror fluids. in the shadow of the water vessels. your hair in flames. your eyes in gaze. your limbs in wax. in a moral cluster of your persona. in a paradox of the barren decidua. at triple points of your raucous belligerence. in a garland of hormones and blood splattering, moon watering, hair curling imagery. you stood by the chimney top. your bare english. your vinyl hat from the ‘70s. your perishing musculature. your drooping shoulders. the burden of a chromosome death. your disability to squeal at the threshold of pain. prodding your ribs, crushing and gnarling and peering into the pheromones of the dandelions. the erection of your brain monuments. in folds, in gyrations, canoodling in syncopation with the feline moth shadows. and your pyramid of lust, post surgical behaviorisms. you are the anatomy of a dead dream. never born, yet shaped in place with imaginations of the little ones. to produce a reproductive machinery of the mechanic by the stall. the stalwart of diuretics, you piss on your shadow. in dissatisfaction. and trepidation of misfortune. this is me. this is i. lost and found in paradox.

to introduce myself. this is the sexual, unbridled. phagocyte. like hallucinations on the bare psychotic carousel. fake monogamy of the cold misogynist. the bigot and racist. the occlusion of emotion, swelling and welling in the pathology of my prematurity. the pre-partum dissatisfactions and comforts within the womb soil, manifest in the general rebelliousness of my tinkering venules. to request my discomfort, this naturalness of the nebulous. fleeting and tumbling, and crooning inside. mary jane, come play with me. swoosh away your dance of clouds. the wiring dams and bricks and chains and tops and cues of the identity plagiarist. once the truth, once the lie. the white bedazzlement of desire. i want to be another me. dissatisfied with the presence of my churlish demeanor. the origin of which, unfounded and miscalculated. i do not know. i cannot tell. it makes me old, with time and days. with seconds of clocks. to re-begin is my new discovery.