My Washing Machine/ My Goddess.

1

Dirty washing hunts at the edge of your universe,

Parched tongues spill from (a) swollen sack,

Microscopic mountains, slimed graffiti

Binding for (an) interval to sliced hours…minutes…seconds…spent…(a)

Cruel half-life restless to gorge itself

On time becoming snatched back from tomorrow— the day after if you can suspend the

Feast…

If you can put off putting on my mechanical touch, gloves lined with newly woken fossils…

Chaffed hands, backs bowed…

Hearts and mind pressed shut…

Unstuck print unprints in soap and suds…

Innumerable glimmers hunched to hollowing near waters’ edge…

Trickling through sculleries, swelling to dreams of freedom run from corsets starched stiff…

Strung up in so many drying zones,

Aired like so many spiny relics…

Washing times wrung out near enough the same texture, shade…density.

Different enough to gather in one agonised spasm, one relic leaps fully formed from (an) Inventor’s head.

The Being of my becoming…

Or was that the Becoming of my being?

I remember

Not.

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I

…Prosthetic support of the logos, (a) handy tool for women’s time...suburban Sphinx…mad alter ego of the moon and waves… (a) stopped flow for some, still lived for most…I

Set my scansion in cute spiral stacks…give birth to creases (beg for being ironed flat) dirt is my clearing…which must have style…fashionable horizons of accomplishment…supple aim without arrow, stitched without needle makeup smears, deodorant stains, mucus trails, seam the space from me to you…no totem masks the noise of my civil squandering…jammed sweatshops… not My hysteria—it

Is all grist to my mill, sucked, boiled, purified in the mystery of my abysmal pit…my holy centrifuge (a) middle place—placed nowhere in particular—would eat you alive…if you could only turn me inside out—if you could only play dice with me—not yet—today—I have been—disguised—(a) domestic pet… despotic travel cop for sun worshipers—this same animal knows nothing now.

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(o)ur table manners will not tolerate disorder, break downs along the way—where—as (an) absurd comedienne…love laughter must always rescue melancholy at each epochal place setting…I have recently turned to slapstick…hunger born of overeating, miming completion with a bold and garish swirl—Snow White could only ever have seven sensible operations—I vomit treacle oil if an alien sock…interrupts…my thirst…this—eternal scene spins/spun/unspinning barely audible cycles murmur proximity to—the cosmos—drum hum lullabies of continuous cover breathing…breathing in…streams of skin flaking dead, (a) pile of bloodied leaks…the fecund odour of your anal sweat…fever spiced…that…cough disrupts…dried remains of last night’s love—breathing, breathing out—steaming snorts soak the air condensed to trembling cannibals—you jubilantly assume the image of our excluded middles, aerating our shrieking molecules…dispersing our perfume, wonder drives out our clouds, our poisoned affects—thronging midwives to iridescence congealed sealing wax over the infernal racket of your noisy clothes—reverenced with our mixing foam— smooth forgetting

—arriving—

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in a box—only yesterday—the day before—(we) were—tomorrow powder proud to stage, off stage—(we) immobile ones border guard your exits/openings—(we) redeem your aborted lines of life—(we) adore your sonority…our frenzies ripple touching untouched— silent feeding in the folds of your surfaces----your placenta—licking under the back of your throat—your tongue—pricklings in your milk…saliva…caressing your orgasm without reserve…unfolding/ refolding the groundless depths of our appetite…traversing your sexes, your dances (we)cold ones—after close your concavity—store time enough for writing—writing us not I—Woman not tool (of)—

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Your/Wisdom.

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Sings life an infinite mobility falling away—vague volumes which are not one or two—become clear for just an instant, hallucinations of neither large or small areas--angelic flesh held outside in held fast/held slow near—our deceptive catatonia—our chaotic stammering holds its festival

---elsewhere —

y/our—inscrutability—y/our

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Dust

Eating Words

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