Exfoliate scrap-feast

I am dangerously close to the transmigration of souls at every moment. The taste is sweet. There is only bitterness when I fight the gap I am (stupid formulation, which makes me bitter, in fact). But there is only “same” qua the other (I’m born and someone loves me before there is a conscious “me” to be loved, I’m born and someone speaks to me before I know what I’m babbling, but I’ve given up gladly the desire to ever know what I’m babbling about). The “spread” that I am– and I don’t want to rely on the rhetoric of the void and the abyss any longer– is laid before you. Is it too obscene to ask that you come to my table and eat me? Nothing agitates me to passion more than the prospect that– is this just an image? just a trope?– we might go hand in hand before the masses and peel off our skins– and stand there impossibly naked, chewing on each other carefully as on figs. And I’d kiss your exposed muscle, you’d slip your little fingers wherever you wanted. The way that we shivered would prove (to us or to the masses?) the existence of “God” once and for all– and we’d piss ourselves.

Is it that I’m being asked to be touched? Or is it that I’ve been touched? That I am nothing but? I’m indecisive here. Is it that I really am that disgusted with “understanding”– that I’m trying to advocate something opposite to it, something more “aesthetic”? Or is it that I just understand too well? So well, in fact, that I have to purge myself of my understanding? Would you believe it if I said that just being who I was was too much, that I had to spit my teeth out, unzip myself at the spine? This terrifying show shackles me to being, requires it!, and without it, madness! Would you have the courage to stick your fingers between my vertebrate– between the bloody gap in my mouth? We could groan as much as we’d like, I promise (it’s not allowed, but not denied, and we’re not incapable)…

I bounce up and down– the traces, irrelevant, have little to do with the art. I’m chasing… a unanimous mode of perception, before contents or forms are taken to be objects. The idea of God as a dead whore– but who was sent these partial ears before they did her in– and thus: legendary forever. An image of openess.

I’m mimicking the way I trace a lover’s lips with my ring finger before I switch to massaging the base of her neck… intently, delicately, full of apprehension, where is our innocent game leading to…

If I really had it in me, I’d admit this: there’s no use in asking questions. The whole ordeal is a question. Something underpins everything conceptual that is not at all a concept. Something underpins every bit of communication that is incommunicable. Something underpins every experience that is radically inexperienced. It’s me-to-come, it’s you-to-come. It’s coming, short and simple.

Oh how I am drowning between our thighs, a twisted and frightened look on my face, massaging this ugly bruise above my heart, waiting for you to take control of me and… anything! Slice off my futile head if you like! It will only result in my elation.

…I can already feel you cradling it in the crook of your arm. — I feel the crook of your arm on the back of my neck already. And the tender look in your eyes, that caring look, already it’s bringing me to my knees…

Was any one as appreciative of this world as I was? If only you could match my gratefulness, you would know already the sweetness of this death. You wouldn’t have to wonder at my words. You wouldn’t have to cock your head like a dog at my nudity– when I prove myself to be something strange to the human, strangely human. Less ephemeral than emerald, more translation than transcendence. As a ‘modal point’ of communication, passing through me was unavoidable. If only you could know how sweet it was to taste you in me, in my mouth, just now. I expire (you’re propelled skyward like the steam of my breath), all of a sudden, without a single regret.

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