Para LlevarIssue: Section:
“An almost incomprehensible emergency where there is none but the death of simplicity.”
I am silverfish the lust artist, painting his body with the scent of my thumbs. I stand before him, akimbo, a passive pilchard, escapee of broken nets, preoccupied with wishes to taste the things he has seen or move him to believe in the rhapsodic diction of kisses.
On stage he rounds his back over black pillars which support the world. Each day I can feel the cracks multiplying, ribs of dried nettle caught beneath wheels driving me apart, or opening to insomnia. The stride of a whale toward his ... I can not find the words! ... and scuff eyes with the brashness of my tongue. Opening to him this way is an earth-born black hole of xylophones, rattling beads, a metallic syncopation of one suspended heart in a mass of ruffled black velvet space, hanging over the longing to be filled by his attention. How much I hate to love, or care if ‘the other’ cares to greet me with wet lips in a crowd jostling to touch the blush angled & balanced on his cheekbones.
I want nothing from him but a lifetime of alluvial lines written on the brink of warmth. I am a non-linear tale and he a gigameter or a point from where I can see myself unaccustomed to his looks, which flicker with scratched lines of poor reception, as he fluctuates between my words and the roses from his lover. I want him over for coffee, laughter & crow’s feet.
Beeswax under nails, bruised legs of my distrustful mind, wanting him hungry for my mouth, my fingers, and my curved imagination. Corn-dog, silver-fish & all things eaten on the go. He cocks his head to the stranger he wants me to be and says “what’s up?” as I dissolve slowly from the sleep caught within the black eye-liner of his left eye. Each day I strangle myself with thoughts on spermicidal pheromones. I grow horns, humps, ill temperament, and become each failed attempt at being the dapper visionary I lose myself to; entwined, speechless, crazed and skittish, unable to digest the subtle focus,their eyes. The drama holds me together,it is impossible longing- the fall before the leap. I tell myself that behind his bucolic glow he has a mad scientist’s ways. He is a flamenco, descending leaf, deep bow, Basho’s peach blossoms. His fake breasts are a circus to men, whereas I imagine his pierced nipples to be rungs of improbability to this tired art, and my aching thumbs, scentless, held within closed fists.