huge lakes of cat piss
sting strong ammonia
and everything tastes like dust + vague traces of menthol cigarettes, unbrushed teeth.
sometimes they start up as a reflection of a reflection
then it’s a distant silhouette of Fear
pacing closer without gaining ground.
i’ve made best friends of sweethearts and i’ve crowned myself
IMMORTAL
i don’t know who i could have been
but i see what i chose to be.
chose and chosen, Alpha Omega Chaos
coronated, sanctified
the Holy Goddess of Logan City.
erratically virginal, most common i’m a whore
sucking cock to taste your disorder, your disarray, and your re-illusionment.
facts being: crass tongues and my indignation
are all the manna of my mania;
an affirmation of my power over the scrotumed sex,
vantage point for weakness,
my lips (for years) wrapped, uncomfortable,
wherever “my” men wanted them
manipulating my internal compass
with semen, with magnets
with the gravitational angle of this piss, puke, cranberry and shame couch.
“my” men, my hungry-eye, lust-liver creeps,
you’re driving me forward with your dissatisfaction, your disapprobation,
your discographies and published works, all forcing yourself until she kind of likes it.
you press me with both hands in the small of my back, saying (sickly, a brute),
“i can break you, so play nice.”
but boys, bare back your teeth,
grimace like yellow squares on dark houses,
i cut clean your erotic pretension
and dig my fingernails through endless carpets with death or ecstasy
at the thought of being the one who receives command directly from the all-encompassed self-serving omni-deity.
no, no.
i present as the aching of my female flux, and my sexual upheaval of your constructs, your codes.
in my constant friction terror bending, i have heat like twisted wire,
melt and mold and unrecognizable.
i can, i know i will
solidify those molten, softened, golden sticky hands
into Makers.
