Once there was me; a finely plaited body,
Once I could never hex this Pius body into sinful manifestations –
Now what is sin?
Me and my body?
Me and the soul nobody can understand where I stole from?
What is a body without language?
What is language without patted understanding?
Why am I unable to settle my worries on time’s hunch?
Isn’t that it’s appointment? To straddle my worries through,
A fitful preinduction.
What is this body you cannot see beyond this bright, obscene aureole it stands beneath?
What is this body just in unaligned production?
I was once the things you dream of,
The words; good and authentic from your lips,
A part in cracks,
A part in plump.
I was once right.
Like you know what that means.
My girlfriend wants to know why I do not have a girlfriend,
I tell her of the unquestionable nothing that I feel,
She asks me this again,
She looks at me with her razor eyes,
She has that word on her lips,
I want to help her confirm it,
You are sick, she says,
I am sick?
What is sick?
Keep reboxing me,
Keep refixing the souls that beat at my tempo,
Keep seeing short, clipped and righteously malevolent.