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#carica
eating figs eating *** eating flesh i swim through my mother's veins and peel back layers, distinctly feminine. i see me. i feel me. i taste me. we hold delicate yet strong and vibrant lovers in our mouths, inflated candy eggs—cosmic nectar. foolishly gazing at our sordid massacres: flesh upon flesh seed upon fleshy seed visions of nightquests sing-songing liquidly i vanish into wormholes, fiery transformations, and bitter leaves, which weep through silver pores. feverishly, we pick apart the stems, dropping them away. hurry, hurry! we're so impatient to get these figs into our mouths. heads crane forward and tongues ****** first. hands follow, fingers last. crush down once, thrice on earth maternal— it's not juice, it's cream. siddhis speculatively come forward and burn triangle patterns behind our eyelids. she is freed again from past recollections, elegantly fighting off disease—cellularly—while drumming solos, gnashing figs, and caressing twigs with toes. i invite you to breathe me in— soft, solid air, stale with anticipation but honey-lemon sweet, and empty besides. we pour sweet broths into banana-leaf cups and drink beetles out of sugarcones, traces of ectoplasm dribbling down our chins, violetly forgetting the echoes of peppermint vapors, and nourishing our bellies with heavy, pregnant plant mothers. i long for excess, and i can never get enough. besides, it is the summer of figs, and we cry openly at the beads of sweat forever forming on glassy surfaces. i taste-touch with my fingers and feel-taste with my tongue, and still i feel that we aren't close enough, so i invite it to enter me and become me, and now i am fig. it's as if the cilia-seeds and tender pink spots expect the pressure. it's true: we expect this solid, gravitational pressure and they rip off wings, just to bathe in our nectar. she hadn't known true ecstasy until this violation of figs, until her madness imploded secretly like their demure insides, and all she could think about was jelly pulp and pale achenes. so saccharine, you say, wiping your mouth with a sticky hand, and wiping your hand on stiff denim, but really there's even more sweet to come later. green-plump violet-plump pink-pulp swallow i hear it before my ears do. i see it before my eyes do. i swimmingly tesselate and wade through the liquid air, particles dissolving around me. there's some give, and i'm able, you see, to be here in this palace of pent-up pleasures and lastly, comes stillness. she weeps hatred from her body so it doesn't seep into her half-digested fig: the fig of all figs. caked with dried mud and chocolate, we emerge and fall off effortlessly into angles of light. dust rises like a prism along pre-choreographed provocations of smoke— steps cascading for spirits of anjeer to patter down into our realm. feed me, they say. and so we do. we break open the figs with childish fingers, tasting before offering on little plates carved out of spoons, melting coconut lashes and spidermilk in the process. the oven creaks quietly, and raindrops lift gauzy veils from drowsy eyelids on sleepy mornings. pulling waterwords from unification, fiery feelings die down until they're just a glimmer— a glimmer of softness, with wet embers tantalizingly dripping fireworks, like childhood. waves murmur something secret, and the whispers only take 5,000 years before they reach your ears, yet you still startle and awaken, sweat on the brow, and glisten your way through, splashing sloppily through paper screens to deliver messages. iron tea kettles sit in dying ashes for far too long. in my visions, i saw ripe, bursting figs hurtling across starlit skies, blossoming beautifully before dropping heavily and with sound. and suddenly it was summer— radiant, glowing summer— with our skin dissolving upwards in the golden heat, sparkling dramatically in the decaying light. i wanted to pull something out of me but the strings were tied to my organs. slippery insides meant less danger, so we tiptoed on grains of sand and grains of rice, and black beads, and black beans, and pearls, and magnets. we tripped through hours, while minutes crawled to a close, and sifted fine blue watersilk until it exploded with mollusks. i am a clam and you are a gallon of fir tree sap, delivered every wednesday, to embellish our fried and crispy things. almond-shaped plumes and majestic, purple heliochromes blaze saturn rings coldly, while the fruit falls apart— first at the center— and our gaze lingers on mother: she is dancing, and dancing.
0
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
neobotanist
ficus carica
eating figs eating *** eating flesh i swim through my mother's veins and peel back layers, distinctly feminine. i see me. i feel me. i taste me. we hold delicate yet strong and vibrant lovers in our mouths, inflated candy eggs—cosmic nectar. foolishly gazing at our sordid massacres: flesh upon flesh seed upon fleshy seed visions of nightquests sing-songing liquidly i vanish into wormholes, fiery transformations, and bitter leaves, which weep through silver pores. feverishly, we pick apart the stems, dropping them away. hurry, hurry! we're so impatient to get these figs into our mouths. heads crane forward and tongues ****** first. hands follow, fingers last. crush down once, thrice on earth maternal— it's not juice, it's cream. siddhis speculatively come forward and burn triangle patterns behind our eyelids. she is freed again from past recollections, elegantly fighting off disease—cellularly—while drumming solos, gnashing figs, and caressing twigs with toes. i invite you to breathe me in— soft, solid air, stale with anticipation but honey-lemon sweet, and empty besides. we pour sweet broths into banana-leaf cups and drink beetles out of sugarcones, traces of ectoplasm dribbling down our chins, violetly forgetting the echoes of peppermint vapors, and nourishing our bellies with heavy, pregnant plant mothers. i long for excess, and i can never get enough. besides, it is the summer of figs, and we cry openly at the beads of sweat forever forming on glassy surfaces. i taste-touch with my fingers and feel-taste with my tongue, and still i feel that we aren't close enough, so i invite it to enter me and become me, and now i am fig. it's as if the cilia-seeds and tender pink spots expect the pressure. it's true: we expect this solid, gravitational pressure and they rip off wings, just to bathe in our nectar. she hadn't known true ecstasy until this violation of figs, until her madness imploded secretly like their demure insides, and all she could think about was jelly pulp and pale achenes. so saccharine, you say, wiping your mouth with a sticky hand, and wiping your hand on stiff denim, but really there's even more sweet to come later. green-plump violet-plump pink-pulp swallow i hear it before my ears do. i see it before my eyes do. i swimmingly tesselate and wade through the liquid air, particles dissolving around me. there's some give, and i'm able, you see, to be here in this palace of pent-up pleasures and lastly, comes stillness. she weeps hatred from her body so it doesn't seep into her half-digested fig: the fig of all figs. caked with dried mud and chocolate, we emerge and fall off effortlessly into angles of light. dust rises like a prism along pre-choreographed provocations of smoke— steps cascading for spirits of anjeer to patter down into our realm. feed me, they say. and so we do. we break open the figs with childish fingers, tasting before offering on little plates carved out of spoons, melting coconut lashes and spidermilk in the process. the oven creaks quietly, and raindrops lift gauzy veils from drowsy eyelids on sleepy mornings. pulling waterwords from unification, fiery feelings die down until they're just a glimmer— a glimmer of softness, with wet embers tantalizingly dripping fireworks, like childhood. waves murmur something secret, and the whispers only take 5,000 years before they reach your ears, yet you still startle and awaken, sweat on the brow, and glisten your way through, splashing sloppily through paper screens to deliver messages. iron tea kettles sit in dying ashes for far too long. in my visions, i saw ripe, bursting figs hurtling across starlit skies, blossoming beautifully before dropping heavily and with sound. and suddenly it was summer— radiant, glowing summer— with our skin dissolving upwards in the golden heat, sparkling dramatically in the decaying light. i wanted to pull something out of me but the strings were tied to my organs. slippery insides meant less danger, so we tiptoed on grains of sand and grains of rice, and black beads, and black beans, and pearls, and magnets. we tripped through hours, while minutes crawled to a close, and sifted fine blue watersilk until it exploded with mollusks. i am a clam and you are a gallon of fir tree sap, delivered every wednesday, to embellish our fried and crispy things. almond-shaped plumes and majestic, purple heliochromes blaze saturn rings coldly, while the fruit falls apart— first at the center— and our gaze lingers on mother: she is dancing, and dancing.
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