In and not apart of It

 

When I peer at myself not directly so as not to disturb things

       a generation       of old definitions                       line faintly to poverty and extinction

 

a single view

a single discipline

a single sound

 

shouts

ξενέρωσα με την κέφι σοu

 

it can shout all it likes. I don’t give a fuck. I want to know something else. I

want to taste plurality. landslides. the immorality of the insides of things. Foul

Orange. Neurotic Pink and Fucking Red.

 

I want the weight of new ways

to crush my skull and expand my nature and

make me hard

 

to share and inexplicably have all of you. your humidness. your soiled eyes for

others. the blackness of ink that rolls down your limbs and pools in your

crevices

 

i                       want to oppress you. to discard and to occupy you. absolutely

reinvent you. this is what we should do. instead we politely pass in missionary ways

bellying sustenance                           pretending to bloom

moist mythologies in Babylon

 

ignoring the gnawing tides that rip through our fractured identities and cultured richness of almond silhouettes, leather straps and fuckmemascara