The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
we walk and i place my
hands through you
as if you are a column of smoke
after all, blues skies are just
an effect of
rayleigh scattering
i’m waiting for a hologram
of you that is more
solid, fleshy and yielding
i want to see my fingers
sink into your skin
i want to make shadows on you
i want to be made of metal
and electricity
i wouldn’t mind the rust so much
if i knew it were coming
if i could clean and polish
the rivets and oil the joints
but unlike the woodsman
i can do without the heart
with it’s complicated gears
incessant ticking
always needing a gentle hand
to turn the key to keep it beating
even better, a data bank
–please, god, not the cloud–
would be a fine sanctuary
to store my mind
to let my consciousness expand
i promise i won’t
launch any nuclear anything
or ever go rogue
i won’t even bother you
asking for a game of chess
——
the lump is solid and dead and wet
when you unsack it
you don’t even pull it out
just let it slide out on its own
gravity does the dirty work
you just guide with with your hands
watch it impale itself on a wooden stake
not that it has a heart
not yet
and you hear it separate from its skin
which you reserve
the peeling off of skin
the baring of red flesh not yet alive
after all, this is eden
you haven’t breathed life into it
not yet
as you take it apart
cutting with wire and knives and fingers
you save the pieces for later
keeping the bits in the old skin
keeping them wet because when they dry,
they are useless shards
let’s not forget where we came from
and what we are
sweating sacks of meat
full of holes and sticky protrusions
gibbering blobs of flesh
fire and wetness and groping hands
slobbering mouths and undulating tongues
winking and blinking in the sunlight
scurrying and huddling together on moonless nights
and finding peace only in others
like outselves
