How much time do we have? I only ask because I only have questions. I can say very few things about you that mean anything. You’re indescribable, so I won’t attempt it: She is indescribable and very good at it.
Though I can be very loud, I remain quietly fucked in the head.
God how much time left? Is it enough? It may never be enough. The question goes away when I look at you. I don’t know what you do to me either and so I won’t say it: She short circuits entire blocks and there s no light left to see what she s done.
You have a big fucking heart. Her heart s so big it’s Machiavellian, it’s sadistic and makes you wanna say “Oh grandma what a big heart you have” To which she’d tell you it’s so that she can eat you whole and not waste much space storing your more essential bits in her.
It’s Machiavellian because you do want to be stored in her. Deep in her.
How satisfying to be a stack of cans at the back of the closet. Ageless tuna, reliable, delicious, essential to the house: the first thing you forget, the last thing you notice, something you can keep for later.
I don’t wanna be kept for later! Cut my head off and use it as a bowl; I’d rather that than to fade away calmly, forgettably calm even. Fuck that, if you want a piece of me I won’t give it to you. If you don’t, here it is, a piece of me, my mind, my cock. Fuck it, you’re stuck with a shin too. Club something to death with it. I can stomp on one foot. I only need two arms to lift you up high enough to make you feel it in your stomach. I wanna reach into your stomach.
What I feel – I feel like I’m a mongoloid, a thing that’s been surpassed and made incomprehensible to himself. I feel somewhere that I don’t know what I feel. I know I feel. And it bloats me, like a hot air balloon, like a carcass, like the moment two people get fat together because they make each other fat with joy. Although I’ve lost weight I feel quite fat.
