by Lucas de Lima on Nov.22, 2011
MOTHER MARY, CUM TO ME. I DO NOT FIT INTO THE ANTHOLOGY. I AM A FLITTING, FLAMING BIRD WITH A PREGNANT THROAT. I EAT NUBILE WORMS AND STROKE FEATHERY BREASTS.
I am a dirty potato. My body touches the worms you pull up through the geosmin smeared earth. Mr Potato Head is my lover. I pull out his arms and his plastic penis and put it in my eye socket.
THE GUSH OF THE EYE AND THE CHILDREN YOU SEE. I AM A WORM-BALLOONED BODY WAITING TO POP WHILE YOU BLIND YOURSELF WITH POTATO FAITH. YOU IN THE GROUND, ME HERE UP HIGH, TOGETHER WE BLEED OUT A RAINBOW.
Baby bird engorged with rice worms. A bird sacrifices itself so I can harvest its shiny sharp beak. I stick the beak into my lover’s nose hole. Lover, hover over you. The blind liver of the potato makes clear worm blood. The blood in you strains for the blood in him.
YES. I SPILL AIDS IN THE SKY, AND THEN PEE-COCKS TAKE FLIGHT WITH WING-DICKS. THEN I BLESS YOUR POTATO AS AN UNDIFFERENTIATING MASS OF INFANT FLESH. I ALWAYS LONGED TO SPROUT IN DARK CLOSETS.
Dodo Christ, you are so fat you are sinking into potato darkness. My potato uterus feels your undulating belly mass, barely protected from the beak of my lover. Your belly is also your face and your back. Dorsal vulnerability invites the horror film of thanksgiving to the earth table.
O, I AM THE WALRUS IN STRAWBERRY FIELDS. I FLOP ON LAND INSTEAD OF CRUISING TWIN CHEEKS. WHEN MY FAMILY STABS ME, I LOOK TO YOUR POTATO UTERUS AND KISS YOUR BIG CHEEK. YOU AND I MASH BY SHARING A SIDELONG GAZE. I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE YOU ONE OF MY BIRD BALLS.
My dirty potato eyeless eyes seep wormy tears as my lover pokes a hole in your back. O now you are a whale, an earthen, breached, stuffed, urthen wail. I hold you in my nonexistent compost arms. A compacted bird ball falls out of the whole. Now you can breath. I wait for the ball to roll towards me. I hope my gravity is strong enough, the small gravity of a starch tot.
MARY YOU ARE SO STRONG YOU ARE THE DICK TO MY MOBY.
Hallelujah. My entire cheek body is a bloated cock without a gobble. In the darkness of my white inside your techno voice beats the desire of my plastic lover, whose stinger falls out, whose air blood leaks out as a forever last breath.
OUR COCK IS SO MULTICOLORED THAT COUNTRIES SPILL OUT FROM IT. OCEANS WE GLUG IN, HOT THIRD WORLD SHIT WE SPOUT. MADE IN CHINA OUT OF WOOD FROM BRAZIL, WE ARE PINOCCHIO.
Cluck. Pinocchio stuffing hatches from your blowhole. Feathers land. You cock your head at me but none blink. I worm myself inside the beige shell of my dying lover. Now my holes double. Now I push out the feet, the hair, the bow, the wagging lips, all eggs splat. We are Pinocchio.