In the new world, flat
shoes play chicken with my vanity. Guided by that gross height
I can net a larger speech or even leech the gunned-for from its stealth.
Guided and besides relapsed SHE holds the large tooth from me, the gold
I would have if I had in this world a steady wealth. SHE holds the large
tooth out like a promise, like a stock, like an inevitably lashing ocean
against sickness’s rocky sharps. What I have I do have and show
to the light, the water, to the coast that results. It is not a mouth but it eats
things like a mouth, it owns a scream, its own. Sometimes it owns up to
such anger and a loose gooey lunch spills out from its chop-chops. Luck
is such that the world likes it. HE will buy me a good gun and I will break it
with my slacked screw entrance. SHE will get real low and scratch that small
block out like a tree. As long as we three are dancing there is no rest
of humanity, no poetry, no plotline therefore to switch. When I retching
forget my hunch it is fine. But who am I? In the new world I lurch and touch
my hair so much. As the center of all light, I am always turned on. Every part
of me cutely closes its empty height shortly, portily, till the hole I have yearly
slaved and lazed over lacquers out. I start to take flight. I approach real
then don't. Pitching crankily I wind up my phantom menaces, stage leaving,
then really exit.
"Barf Trinity" is part of a developing series of "trinities" in which I explore bisexual desire by messing with pronouns: essentializing them, over-exposing them, mixing them up. Basically, I find I do this unconsciously all the time anyway, so I decided to cast the tangle front and center. So far, the trinities are inspired by different authors I'm excited about--this one is after Dodie Bellamy's "Barf Manifesto," which itself is after Eileen Myles' "Everyday Barf."