800

I’m terrified of tongues over 50 speeds of grow sandpaper hands and lizard tongue
the need to wraggle dry whip into any opening recoiling countenance no no but
whatelse can I do it presses and peee-ewww-trefies to viscosity frozen and petrifies
into rings and rings arboreal engagement macking racks on racks on racks and we
get faded into fresh forms of heart attack.

Information is held in terms of entrance how to hold resistance in the face of the
lack of knowledge. The ungrammatical as rawness and science is the grossest god
that makes no sense

pushes matter to a new jump.

I like animals against tongues
and conceptual forms of hatred
potential methods of pizza chomping
and saliva portals
science as received cultural knowledge
and aesthetics or organization seeds an atmospheric
question
why why does it need to be
this text?
what is content but not science
yet only natural history
what is a laboratory and a generation of meaning

slam the body up against
the mind
oh shit
this is getting heavy handed

one’s limits aren’t limits always so apparent based on physical harm and the need to
build boundaries out of fear and what it means to get close to spaces of unwell
unfathomable darkness and all the shame that proceeds it but still a need to get
blackened charred in a ruined flesh of idolatry divoted with injury.

this blood is a curse a curse beyond all rogue repression and you can piss in bottles
and hoard them all around you but still never face that bilious puke that revulsion is
sterile and so are you. what is that object? what does it mean? is a weapon a prop
more than a gesture no the gun just signifies she is fed up.

the want to enter
to traverse the male world
and all that must be conceded
of what to give up
to tie yr breasts with twine
sugar sapped notions
in a rotisserie hate crime
but I

I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO DIE

Men make history women get fucked and that is why I walk away with these blow-job cheeks asking you to check my credit score. I know you’re impotent better get extra wedding photographers to better manufacture the tragedy. But first let’s get back to life after jesus to find who bears the real face of the deranged in an amnesiac christening wearing the slip slime as a replacement death mask.

thanks

how are you

wanna fuck?

at the Starbucks
do not ever hide yr
cruising urge
tumble to
verify a new codex for
The Magna Carta of
riff apology
as up my alley
is one thing
my urethra is the other

on my side of the plant planet
we are swirled to full misery
you say no feelings just chemicals
because all you can eat is salt.
you want no living particles
no calories
or commitments
just minerals.
Crystalline food courts
‘til you swing low and grunt
timber
to the pharmacist
you make good mixology
lab coat humanoid

I still hope to be dead by 50
and rise into the other world conscience
of kindred ignorance
I only like ugly animals that hate the bright.
We are the only animals here
and in no need of feed
that grizzled kind
bypassed by gristle.
I am so much an animal
I want nothing to do with them
instead cull the gunk laws
and prepare new energy
new stigmas of meaning
the hegemony of indifference
to almost cutting
a catchphrase from yr
busted distaste

but I ain’t finna be nobody’s harlot
and I don’t wanna die
no no not just yet
but I am going to find a way
to continue writing until I hear you say
good morning sunshine how’s yr fever?
and you say,
I would call you a cunt
but you don’t have the depth
or the warmth cuff
puffed up on that

we the hunted
we the branded

stuffed up elbow deep
with the rest of
roped throttled
cattle
as my brain recedes
this cellulose wad that smells the coffee burning
takes comfort in a wasted
crust
char makes my head hurt
in a way that’s not unpleasant
just demanding and all I can think of is
where can we find the pioneers?
to search at the risk of finding nothing
as you sit above me
and demand the things I’m too afraid to give
even though
I know you’re not drunk
I am fully willing to play the role of
male rage right now.

Make some,
friendly little slime gal

fuck the lady
save the whore
they’re be more mercy down the windpipe
be sure to crunch
then crouch
I’ll tell you once with splendor
I forgive not
an apology.

Detracted.
Redacted.

I’m sorry
but I didn’t really try.

Cassandra Troyan is an artist and writer who is the harbinger of anti-winged aesthetics. She is the author of THRONE OF BLOOD (Solar Luxuriance), and forthcoming in the fall, The Things We Embody Are The Things We Destroy (Tiny Hardcore Press). She curates the reading and performance series ARTIFICIAL EAR with Peter Jurmu in Chicago, IL where she currently works and resides. She can be found at http://onemurderleadstoanother.com/