I had a dream where sweating foot soles were harvested from that immortally fertile tree of woman-leg with hacksaw, pinch of disinfectant – like uprooting a flower, kills the life and the beauty of the thing – obsession: the clinical and the gore – ran through the whole goddamn vaginal orchard and pubic hairs soaking my skin wet and hungry – give the artist his space, ladies and gentleparts, he needs to write of cocks on cockskin – bullshit, bullshit -
I’m sorry you wanted of me, SB, I was wired for the honey pot and indisposed to that brand of penile flagellation, though your flattery stood my ego on end for a good while – and believe you me, brother, we are fraternal like pods on a dying vine, our wires don’t connect the same way but trust me they cross and I get your signal on pork-finding radio as clear as the waves we ride on – wish to god you didn’t have to think you were weird, you were made beautiful from a new mould in a new fashion -
none of this is true, I made it all up, but I hid my desire in absurdity, you see? – then I lost my momentum as vomiting children often must – don’t listen to me, I beg you, I stopped having a point when my existence did the same – just another flesh tree in a mildly interesting forest of skin – it was a remarkably poor yielding season -
