Carcass Regions

For Aylan Kurdi

You smell like disaster.

Imagine something beautiful
Something sea green unfurling like a baby bird
In your hands imagine baby birds falling out of falling trees
Falling nests
Imagine baby birds confusing identities so baby birds flapping their wings
Because you tried to teach baby birds
But baby birds flap their wings
And nothing happens

Imagine spray painting GONADS and believing it is art
Imagine spray painting GONADS and believing you could make everyone believe it is art
If you know, you said it often enough
It's art it's art it's art it's art

STAND BEFORE THE GODDAMN MIRROR
It's art it's art it's art it's art it's art
Wake up hungover on the sleep you wanted but couldn't get
It's art it's art it's art it's art it's art
Draw a baby bird with arms and teeth and
No not teeth fangs really
Draw blood for it to feed on
It's art.

If you repeat it often enough
If you repeat flapping your wings often enough
If you run fast enough
If you honestly solemnly seriously get high enough
If you definitely sincerely absolutely let it touch you enough
If you don't
It's art.

You disaster like smell.

In water I could lay down and pretend that it is more than this second this half-submerging this quietness this senseless this
In water I could stand having drunk water washed water renewed water
In water I could wash out sounds of narrartives
In water I could be flapping and maybe
In water I could be a penguin
Black and white
Art.
In water if I could breathe enough long enough if I could recall enough to know I am enough
Art.

I don't remember the water
The water has washed enough to wash away sediments of memories
And set it down on banks to choke empty seashells
To cling on to someone else's finger prints
To leave the disaster smell of the sea and all the empty carcasses it carries with itself
To be washed down with boiled bland tea
To create a carcass region in the skin of every man it seas
To create a miniature island, one sediment-sized memory deep
And goddamn it, it will touch you.
definately. sincrely. absoultely

Just don't call it art.

Pillow Talk (Sequel to Small Talk)

I see you in epic proportions
Like you stripped open the earth
And emerged in a cloud of dust
And raised your arms
And rain happened.    

I told everbody everywhere
-The every body I knew
The every where I knew
(Which was a lot
But not enough)-
That where ever you went
They would be asking the self  
They knew a nanosecond before you
Became more them than they  
'Who the fuck are you, anyway?'


I imagine you naked more times than
I'd like to admit
But not because that is arousing
And not because you were always an absolutist                  
But because
I think (and you'd agree),
That you were born too natural to be anything
But self-explanatory.
 
There is only one way to end
And there are just so many kinds of death
But then, you'd never buy the idea of something that obvious
And end up leaving yourself in everything
(The every thing
I see
Smell
Hear
Taste
Feel
Be)
Else instead.

See, I don't even know you yet.
But I don't hold that against myself
Because I have learnt all the steps of
The dance sequence that's
Set to the tune of when
Rain happens
So that when rain ends,
It will end with me screaming into the  
Rough edges you left when you
Split open my skin
Like the earth
Time and again                          And rain became:

'You are the most acceptable kind of madness'