down in me

I don’t want her. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t flow. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t glide weightlessly towards me with a thin smile. I want a girl like gauze. I want a girl that exists in streams, that tears into long strips, that can easily float onto a breeze. I want a girl that rustles soft like paper, a girl that doesn’t spit, that isn’t big, that doesn’t open wide, that doesn’t lie back. I want a girl that’s tightly wrapped and lean. A girl narrow like string, sparse like vellum. I want to feel her perpendicular, outstretched, reaching from her slight core far outwards, miles and miles of her, reams of her, taut and fine.

feel like a mass delusion. feel like a tree, feel like going into the atmosphere with my friend milky and saying ‘fuck it’ to the stars because really, who decides when light is to reach the surface of my leaves? i want to climb up stairs, feel like an intrusion, feel apt. i just want someone to say here is a girl, her name is ani, care for her, pretend she’s an animal, pretend she’s a tree. i want to know when i became so standoffish and i want to know when i became sane and i also want to know if that was you in the car park the other night, bleating horribly into the space like some winded elephant or a nintendo 64 or something because i really wanted to play with you but my eyes kept saying stop it, you are not a tree you are a mass delusion and we don’t want to see where you’re going to end up, we always were the prettiest part of you, we don’t deserve this squinting treatment and etc.

He had a regular-sized dick and I went to the store and I stole it. From the regular-sized dick collection behind the glass. A lot of us talk about beauty. A regular hanker for a cure, a regular size, not big or extra. I said, I’ve been waiting to do this all night and then I went and did it just like I’d seen it done. I don’t know what happened after that. Someone had thrown a breast and shattered the glass and a glass crackling caught my eyeball. But they are one of those bands that are going to sound normal live.

She sometimes likes things I don’t like. She smacks lips and mouths the word FUCK with a savory disposition. I smile. I have no quarrel with her tonight, but what’s this? A gobfull of fingers, plastic and metal, writhing between my teeth and tongue beg me taste.

I need to be restrained. Court is in order. Someone order me to stop smoking. Not you, mom, you had your chance.

Does no good to be too precious about all this, it does no good. Care is taken where care lies and where we lie, assuming that by now you know us well enough to know so.

sadly looking at your pictures
why you have no change for quarters
why we told you she’s not pretty
how the west was never won

It’s so important to be not boring. A constant rearrangement of things is what is required. Also, a somewhat steady acquisition of newer things is imperative. One must endeavor in any and all cases to cease to be faithful to the letter and conversely be fast and loose with a jackhammer on the windowsill. Only boundlessness will be rewarded.

I got up to pee. In the dark, I slipped on slippers and shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. It felt darker than usual for bedtime. I stepped out of my bedroom into what I thought was my hallway but was a dark void. I died. Then I remembered I still had to pee. I died with a full bladder. Did you know that when you die you retain your last bodily state? A sort of psychic photograph. I died while needing to pee and slightly sleepy. Nobody was waiting for me in the bathroom. I kept reaching up to rub my eyes but I had no hands. I wished to pee and go back to bed but I could no longer find the hallway. Or the toilet. Or the bed. Or the door. Or the lightswitch. Or the other door. Or the floor. Or the wall. Or my flat. Or my face.

A pretty brunette with eyes like late afternoon golden suns on a planet that has two suns set in a peachy expanse of heaven.

I came back to tell you how much I loved it but you were gone.

I spit disease.

I’m tired of propping you up like we’re in a shitty eighties movie.

I’m tired of thin-lipped brunettes waxing pretty and making me agitated.

They don’t know what they’re talking about.

I would spank myself, but I don’t like the feeling of my skin against my palm.

But I like the feeling of my palm against my skin.

And I like the feeling of almost too drunk.

But I don’t like the feeling that comes next.

Just kind of waiting, waiting. And sleep is the cut off of waiting for brief hours until you wake to wait again.

Excuse me? I beg your pardon, but what of the beauty? They say they saw it here at some stage past. Previously they’ve seen it wandering these very halls, but we’ve seen nothing of the sort. Nary a flicker idles by nor does a flash of sincerity do create that which is beauty. Nor does itself, beauty. Or even a beaut. Or a beau, I dare say we’ve not seen one of those in ages. We sit poised, our hair is well coiffed, our noses upturned yet only slightly as in an air but not overly so; our clothes are neat and clean and pressed, our nails trim. And yet here we sit and here we shall remain and none but pain does pay us mind.

How do you teach a soldier to stand down? A fighter when the coast is clear to let down his guard and conserve energies at an opportune moment, like when there are no more bumblebees in the bathroom. But what if one should appear? Should you get caught in the bathroom with your pants and your guard down both, should you worry.

Inimitable concern. Unmitigated concern. And a facility for pronouncing neither.

And a propensity for overblown savagery.

Here in this eight-by-eight room of halves and three-quarters sits a stoned and weathered you. A glossy mirrored you. A you of little faith. A misunderstanding. No one leans against a lamppost to watch. Your thread of word being too hard to follow. I mean swallow. I mean I was almost in there without the first person. I mean I was almost in there without the cruelly amateur attempt at post-modernism. Oh, look. She said post-modernism. Burn that bitch at the steak. Do I have to sic it or will you not believe that whatever I can will do say what what.

Muscular pain, misplaced files, sticky notes that don’t stick, low-flying planes, earworms slithering unbidden. Shady characters averting their eyes. Shit for breakfast. Pole fuckers. I mean of course, fuckers that are Poles. Italo-Greek fuckers. Dark fuckers emitting dark English sounds, beckoning Asian chicks to bed. Aussie fuckers loudly laughing. Leg splaying, body laying, money grubbing, whore displaying. Trite banal regurgitating. Shady dealing, eye averting, ungood karma having, art subverting. Blood boiling, stomach distending, life hating, population over-populating. Sweet smiles island swaying, it ain’t all bad. She says it ain’t all bad. It ain’t all bad, I go, no. It ain’t all bad.

Squashed between a white chick, an asian lady and a black guy, I don’t know where to look. Could be one sweet, one hot, one kinky, and me. Could be what you saw on TV.

I close my eyes tonight and pretend I am a tiny floating speck. I don’t think about writing this. I think speck-like thoughts such as who’s for dinner and will we ever be love. Then I feel weightless, truly weightless. Turns out we crashed into an elephant. Luckily, I am a speck and as a speck I’m not hurt, just jostled. A little shook.

Sometimes I don’t know what much to make of my presence felt. I would badger with the phone but as a speck it’s really hard for me to dial your number. I feel so inadequate mainly owing to my size, but also to my lack of gravity.

I don’t want to be a speck anymore. I want to be a needle to inject you with my feeling. You’d come crying, wake up crying and tell me of your hurt. You’d come screaming, claw your face and wake up drenched again. And with the same old speck floating in your goddamn semen.

I love you. So much you could die.

I live in someone else’s house now. Every morning I do her dishes and empty her bins. I listen to her stereo at a very low volume so as not to disturb her. I look over her shoulder and it’s more tan than I recall thinking of its shade. Her shoulder’s fuzzy and down her arm the same. I look back further and catch strands of her hair in my periphery. It’s shiny black and messy and it makes me feel like sex. I wonder whether I should scrub her toilet. I like to be a welcome houseguest, one you wouldn’t mind inviting over again and making love to at least in your mind. I like to make love to houseguests and houseplants because everyone needs to be comforted once in a while. If I was her mother I would not chastise her for the dusty books on the floor in every part of the house - even if they make me sneeze. I’d ruffle her hair and give her loving looks. But I am not her mother no more than I am a mother. Mothers give this life so what’s so special about that? Ask someone who doesn’t exist. There are ladybugs crawling all over the coffee table as some sort of artistic statement / fortuitous omen. I briefly think about splattering them with one of the dusty hardcovers but I don’t because it’s not my house and I like to be a welcome houseguest that doesn’t murder the other inhabitants often if at all. I read The Art of Happiness. I know what happens when we die, you don’t have to tell me twice. As I said, I’m not her mother but if were, I would mother her clear off this mortal coil. Because mothers are caring and good like that and I like to be a good housemother to all my loving plants. Because without her I am homeless and sleeping on glass doors never really suited me.