after. math.
every night i
sleep next
to a reminder
of how six years look
untreated. how it can
metastasize into awkward
moments and divvy up
intimacy into chunks
of surreal humor.
makeup over a ruined face.
just wanting
her to rape me clean
back down to base
nerves and chemical
treatments that burn eyeballs
away.
it's unique
to joke about
your newly dead
relationship with the she
that passed with it.
talk about who you'd do
over coffee or laundry folding
in front of the tv. really
deconstruct each others faults now
in very unbiased ways. refer
to one another as pal or bud.
and it's arterial
gushes in tight lipped
smiles and unsure eyes.
the gore not even
on the wall. it's knee
capped and underlined
in times new
roman coliseums couldn't
fill up with this stuff
bubbling up to the cabinets
a stew
flavored
with the end
of us.
so odd
it can only
be defined in abstracts
and liberally poured cocktails
in rock
glasses, even thick panes,
not needed
to see how very clearly
suicided
this bomber is. poor trait
she dreamed you up in the backseat
while he stuffed away.
daydreaming you more
under sizzling spoons.
she didn't know you
already existed.
across the globe
role playing the world
away to a soundtrack
of glassy eyes. refusing
its beat to the gush of night.
both running around
looking for the best nothing
to make all this work.
. . . . . . . . .
then it's hate.
she hates so well it could be
bottled up.
she barely exists in this world.
more like an idea
guys use to prove tragedies
live walk and breath.
rubbing society raw
on the fringe. protruding, that high pitched elbow.
gaudy with style. preferring
target to kmart laughing
at macys. telling it all
to fuck it.
with two french manicured fingers
licking them clean on the way down.
a world, bee-stung and barely
swelling. googly eyes.
I saw a saint
its bones ready to be relics
starchy kissed by hand
down worshipers.
Colored glass weeping
at that brilliance and
an empty congregation
staring. Still filled. Taking bites
from immortal dust.
Benny Hinn eyes looking
right through
the tube. Shaking in
sane ways to the sway
of Tammy Fae tears.
For fears could turn vapor
rise in the cool calm of the Still.
But instead crowds lost
and found in the moment.
Our modern relics living
legends shining hollow
through white noise hymns
purple and pink bushes
burning on top of sinning heads.
The heat of a studio god’s
watch. Canned howling
trying in tongues till twisted times end.
A revelation spic and spanned in three
minute clips of our Madonna
in the face
of cheese. And sold on ebay. pathology of swallowing
any food will work or not work.
packaged enchiladas
organic minestrone
vegetable quiche.
whatever. it isn't going down. this time it was trimana’s famous bar-b-que
chicken salad. the only thing saving You
was the heaped on dressing.
it's the lead up that kills.
usually during preparation
sumtimes by morning coffee
on the exceptionally nightmarish days.
the beep beep
of the microwave, a countdown.
breakfast, a thing of the past by this point
with its bagels. a harrowing ordeal.
the whole thing can reek of funny faces
and knee jerk contortions to co workers
if You’re unlucky enough to be dining publicly.
working the newly chewed mouthful
around the tongue. softening the delight
storing it behind your cheeks cause You’re not ready to concede how fucked
You really are.
preparing.
to try and get it down the right hole.
if You’re lucky its just a brief freak
out. jerk. time freezes, takes a piss
in your eyes and then it’s
on to the next portion of the same
mouthful. there’s no enjoyment
in eating.
poking at that tube becomes a past time.
a masochistic way to try and keep power.
caressing the cartilage vertically
agonizing over each ridge you feel is too prominent.
losing sight of the day
reenacting the fun times
of gorging taco bell in the car. inhaling it all.
not a phrase you can even muster
in thought anymore. standing up while feeding
becomes a way of life. the dance. the dance.
smoking pot? out of the question.
it only furthers your problems. going
cold turkey has never been so easy.
fear of choking turns to terror
over food slipping into the lungs.
dysphasia usually afflicts the elderly
as they grow deranged.
the whore of it becomes very evident
upon internet research. all roads
lead to anxiety disorders or throat tumors.
wasting and malnourishment
usually starts around the time dread sets in.
Your ego failing with your health.
You find yourself on the soup aisle a lot.
examining ingredients opting
for soaked vegetables….maybe
a beef vegetable, but only ralph’s brand.
their meat barely a step ahead of mush.
being a smoker makes the swallower
in question feel like a big old asshole.
indicting himself all over the place.
everybody knows your lymph nodes
swoll right up against the esophagus.
things really start to go down hill
phantom food soon shows up in the back
of Your throat. Now….this is when
the shit truly becomes a vicious cycle
of fucked.
endless coughing. relentless pursuit
of that invisible morsel rawing the trachea.
creating the delusion
that you can’t breathe properly.
and when you do it’s only devastating
your lungs with the soon to be
staling ingredients for a bacterial infection.
one that wont have a problem at all
of swallowing
You up.
sum days better than others
most unrelenting gasping. horrified
moments hiding your bites behind a napkin
or hand. soaking all of it in coke zero.
taste becomes a myth.
a legend told to Your taste buds at night.
You’re irritable. opting out
restaurants. only thinking
about swallowing. everything
fucking everything
else seems like a joke now
you wanna talk about it with sumone
but the humiliation is too much.
ridiculous thoughts like
going on a liquid diet
or letting your teeth
go to rot
so you have a reason,
pop into your mind.
these filthy things make sense.
gristle filled steaks. dry mouthfuls
of gala apples caramelized on a stick.
sandwiches not doused in condiment.
fantasies more valuable than blow jobs
by strange women.
screaming at food becomes a normal.
window shopping delis with a gulp
and a frown. fat people
irritate You for all the wrong reasons.
You’re getting punished
tortured. all the while
letting the blinding truth sink in
that This
is required three times a day.
Jason Neese: When i sat next to him he defined me as a very tall skinny man that needed lots of shaving gel. this did little for my complex so i wandered around outside until i received four discrediting gazes. ive never been back to nc since. california rarely feels like my home.
Jason reports that he just recently took the helm at Kill Poet, a fine online zine. You can visit Kill Poet's myspace page here: www.myspace.com/killpoet and check out more of Jason's work at www.myspace.com/syntax311
Last update : 04-10-2007 18:21
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Lit Circus 
