she’s no tranny
“who has not asked himself at some tome or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?”
-Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star.
I saw a movie once and it took place in heaven. He’s not, like, 10/10 gorgeous, but still. Systems of exchange, bodybits all shining like dead soldiers. Look for the River, look for gaps in the horizon, look for gaps between each hair on my head. Roll over in bed and don’t stop. Listless rotisserie of weekend living, shunted by taxidrivers off Dean Street. I dream of neutral spaces. Meanwhile hang back avoiding shadows as if postboxes and ticketmachines were people. You’ve broken me here, moved on to the next girl and left me with nothing – I’m in burger king, yeh? Biding my time, not protesting too much, charging my phone, touching my sensitive spots, committing soft crimes in daylight. Who needs romance when you’re doing it up the bum?
sore right thru me.
“think of spam and junk, think of plugholes and think of me” Bella Lugosi.
‘a girl like me’ is squirming
or else is just bits of paper
[trembliung in remembrance/sleeping all though dead]
‘i am a creep’:
“bt you got no rite to sit there sayin I abuse it, when u only sleep with grrls who say they like yr music.”
-The Dresden Dolls, ‘Backstabber’.
Female dissertation writers have this sense of bodies craving in. Art class & cleavage, like seeing yrself on television. Gathering speed then slit back upon.
Petrol - clad, urban symmetry makes us tremble in short skirts, knees and elbows atrophied, hair blowing around on waltzers, giggling like we’ve all had clitorectomies.
Everywhere there are Eiffel towers masquerading as electricity pylons so ‘though overweight men spit phlegm into puddles you can just smile & say ‘bonsoir’ ‘cos you know the truth. Ouija.
chicken o my
c r a c k .
my skinnybeast –