Spit
I feel like someone’s infected spit. Drip on me please, I beg you , just melt. For me. Or wave over me like some voice you hear when you see that blinding light, centred like a clit in the night. Right in the middle of the highway carpet ride towards the lightning where we all get shocked out of our wits because we finally woke up to the breakfasts of champions who never were. Should I go back to where I started or should I shed memory like skin, down the disgusting pipelines of the psych? Or should I go back to spit? Spit on a clit. Spit raining on me, raining so hard I cannot bear the arousal. What is so fucking amazing about feeling human? Taking a shit, puking vodka ,licking last night’s sperm ,still stuck in toothbrush routines and hourly engagements such as burning yourself with a kettle twice, and feeling. Oh fuck…feeling. If poetry and art could be perceived mechanically the sense we would make from it would be an abortion. So I just listen to Rammstein and drown in sound. It´s so dark I can’t even see what I’m writing. Some Sci-fi horror on TV again. I just feel like licking my wounds until there is no hope for them. Maybe that alien can come and spit that acid on me. Hope just dresses you up for a party where no one shows up. You sit in the corner like some little man tate without the brain. Just feeling, feeling you up, feeling you down, feeling you until you wish for permanent anaesthetic until the day you die and start living and go to makro. Big bulk is heaven. Security is god. Guilt are just chains that keep you shopping for pain in big bulk and search for that item in every rack that makes you wake up at 3 am and feel so awfully alive. Flash lights are so awfully overrated it’s like a hand of a person that doesn’t exist. Ease up, lighten up, torch up, explode into a circle of light on someone else. Spot light on. Relationships are the only rational way to realize there´s other people around. I fucking love you. Life. You stink. You drip. Again on me. Sperm and fat and blood and crusts and cholesterol and nicotine. I really do love you. I love you like that last bit of wine in my glass. I hang on to you like I hang on to that wine, threatening to leave. That red is like the red of life lost. That is where the secret of life lies: in the colour of menstrual booze.
February 21st, 2008 at 5:32 pm
extraordinary Cecilia, what a wonderful aliveness you have brought to these words - thank you for the journey.
February 21st, 2008 at 6:16 pm
red is life lost
secret of life lies
February 22nd, 2008 at 7:48 am
I like the part where cecilia says “Maybe that alien can come and spit that acid on me.” It’s so funny even though I can relate to it. It happens. I just wish I was that alien.
August 1st, 2008 at 10:33 am
groovy, baby. groovy.