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luke-gagnonPoems
I in the dark starvation is real. In dark, the emesis that fills my cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal coinage, the fine bulbous talons of Sepiidae. Savagely, pelagically starving made me rich when Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat. Sad Spanish blood, I would like you to panic about what has been lost. No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate flesh from the dugong-heavy remora a parallax of sorts occurs when I cannot find my own entrails— perhaps they are ruminating in my gut— boiling in my optic nerve. But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels of goat. I was small enough to fit through playground gates so I could swing swing in earthquakes, and portents ride out this day on the waves—to succeed foothills, grasses, and bath salts by the creek. I got my quarters. They asked me who made me as Mountain Dew dribbled down my chest. Infant teeth shattered my infant fists and I did not eat divvied livers and Victim watchers. I wrote on my protruding viscera proverbs from my ancient days –extraordinary porch things, depleted Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs I catalogued my windscraped knees. How does one so young become so fed up with hunger. II Starving made me easier to tie. easier to lift. my ancient autopsy of starvation made me feel gutted out like Finished ice-cream containers. Made me able to hold my breath for up to six minutes—starving made me full of Household Gods and rickety rosaries, small brown globular clusters, 1 arcsecond of stress capable of aligning me with spring-loaded washers I pop one nut—two— Dental Work can be a rhizome, ordering wee-soldiers from its tethered nodes without lactation, laceration, infection into my sleep-deprived throat, Choking on bird chirps and x-ray bursts below the cradle where my android sleeps. I have named him The Alabaster. (Synching The Alabaster.) The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat that I have hole-punched into; like children of the deep I have hurled nearby rocks into its lungs. I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon sidewalk, for a beast that panics. I would trade the last of the dugongs for a muskrat’s smile– now there exists a cult for Plastic that the spotlights started, and in the night it will not end with the filter feeder sinking to the depth of the imagined water column, spinning in the Gyre disposal. There isn’t a colander large enough to sift through the pejorative waste. I knew the night would be fraught. It makes my fusiform body necessary for transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption trucks and ACE arms reach for well-behaved spearfish bodies. Makes days disappear and cold seem like simmering. Makes staying out of sight a trim. And I told them, the Fusiforms and Balusters, that the spearfish would devour the hero who comes from afar bearing the gift of travel– Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil “Manufactured in USA” in compounding pharmacies. He made me. And I told him: to Tell me to trawl for something less plastic than my second self–that I which exists in Mary Poppins cannons, compact intimacies, medical and portable– to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle that failed to photodegrade during the the day the Sirenia sang, the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand fed it to the remora. III My mouth is parched for diagnosis of rickets, for my un-mineralized bones. I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π, population “II”s to stand in for my night. I need Sweetened, Spoonfuls of BB pellets and Spoonfuls of cepheids to help the tetany go down, myopathic infants and ricket Rosary symbols only work in sacrifice–In this sense, I have constructed a panic architecture–Craniotabes are too vast. Prions and viroids have seeped through, Infections more than dreams, for injured muskrats who yearn for the last real mermaid’s smile, or tears if that would smash open the cluttered ocean and scatter the unwanted hosts multiplying in my spinal fluid. In day there is no more starvation– the remora bring me Libations and admire my six pack rings mobile. My connective obligatory. Under my fingernails are thin crisps that may somehow create equilibrium. Although I nibble them regularly I can’t always swallow. Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas my tongue is itching. My teeth are scratching, scraping away the space that will always be there. The antique aisle at the local international superstore is handing out shriveled heads of past didactic patients. But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters it’s what’s not there. And in my case there’s a surplus of nothing that I can live without.
0
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
a Surplus
I in the dark starvation is real. In dark, the emesis that fills my cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal coinage, the fine bulbous talons of Sepiidae. Savagely, pelagically starving made me rich when Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat. Sad Spanish blood, I would like you to panic about what has been lost. No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate flesh from the dugong-heavy remora a parallax of sorts occurs when I cannot find my own entrails— perhaps they are ruminating in my gut— boiling in my optic nerve. But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels of goat. I was small enough to fit through playground gates so I could swing swing in earthquakes, and portents ride out this day on the waves—to succeed foothills, grasses, and bath salts by the creek. I got my quarters. They asked me who made me as Mountain Dew dribbled down my chest. Infant teeth shattered my infant fists and I did not eat divvied livers and Victim watchers. I wrote on my protruding viscera proverbs from my ancient days –extraordinary porch things, depleted Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs I catalogued my windscraped knees. How does one so young become so fed up with hunger. II Starving made me easier to tie. easier to lift. my ancient autopsy of starvation made me feel gutted out like Finished ice-cream containers. Made me able to hold my breath for up to six minutes—starving made me full of Household Gods and rickety rosaries, small brown globular clusters, 1 arcsecond of stress capable of aligning me with spring-loaded washers I pop one nut—two— Dental Work can be a rhizome, ordering wee-soldiers from its tethered nodes without lactation, laceration, infection into my sleep-deprived throat, Choking on bird chirps and x-ray bursts below the cradle where my android sleeps. I have named him The Alabaster. (Synching The Alabaster.) The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat that I have hole-punched into; like children of the deep I have hurled nearby rocks into its lungs. I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon sidewalk, for a beast that panics. I would trade the last of the dugongs for a muskrat’s smile– now there exists a cult for Plastic that the spotlights started, and in the night it will not end with the filter feeder sinking to the depth of the imagined water column, spinning in the Gyre disposal. There isn’t a colander large enough to sift through the pejorative waste. I knew the night would be fraught. It makes my fusiform body necessary for transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption trucks and ACE arms reach for well-behaved spearfish bodies. Makes days disappear and cold seem like simmering. Makes staying out of sight a trim. And I told them, the Fusiforms and Balusters, that the spearfish would devour the hero who comes from afar bearing the gift of travel– Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil “Manufactured in USA” in compounding pharmacies. He made me. And I told him: to Tell me to trawl for something less plastic than my second self–that I which exists in Mary Poppins cannons, compact intimacies, medical and portable– to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle that failed to photodegrade during the the day the Sirenia sang, the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand fed it to the remora. III My mouth is parched for diagnosis of rickets, for my un-mineralized bones. I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π, population “II”s to stand in for my night. I need Sweetened, Spoonfuls of BB pellets and Spoonfuls of cepheids to help the tetany go down, myopathic infants and ricket Rosary symbols only work in sacrifice–In this sense, I have constructed a panic architecture–Craniotabes are too vast. Prions and viroids have seeped through, Infections more than dreams, for injured muskrats who yearn for the last real mermaid’s smile, or tears if that would smash open the cluttered ocean and scatter the unwanted hosts multiplying in my spinal fluid. In day there is no more starvation– the remora bring me Libations and admire my six pack rings mobile. My connective obligatory. Under my fingernails are thin crisps that may somehow create equilibrium. Although I nibble them regularly I can’t always swallow. Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas my tongue is itching. My teeth are scratching, scraping away the space that will always be there. The antique aisle at the local international superstore is handing out shriveled heads of past didactic patients. But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters it’s what’s not there. And in my case there’s a surplus of nothing that I can live without.
#anxiety#space#body#nothing#panic#hunger#lack#starvation
luke-gagnon
Written by
luke-gagnon
American
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
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