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Meat
Poems |
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mysp_ace |
I upload a mess. EDIT PROFILE: First name is Meat Pants private and used for search only. My space is an apartment is ashambles. That's how I like it: secret word opening a cluttered page stitched out of pixels and data, like so much pixie dust. My password is Laundromat. ABOUT ME: Can I crawl out through a hole in my own head? I'd like to have an aperture or orifice through which sadness can pass. I'd like to tie a stone to an experience and throw it into writing, but she says, "That's just not how language works." Then she gives me four bruises aligned in intersecting stripes across my thighs. One X marks the spot and the other X marks INTERESTS AND PERSONALITY:
I enter a blank field. Empty, as in waiting for inscription. As a data entry clerk, my job description was "Flesh interface." Duties included transcribing bodies into information and drinking the COMPANY's array of complimentary beverages. I called myself Meat Pants, always cheerfully, as in, "Meat Pants, reporting for duty!" Each day I faced dozens of postal crates containing tiny postcards that had been filled out with personal information and mailed back to the COMPANY. Sometimes I couldn't read the handwriting, wobbly ballpoint careening around the postcard's printed blanks and lines, so I just keyed whatever into the database. In my headphones droned Journey to the Center of the Earth as read by Tom Baker. If you lined up all the postcards in the crates, would they reach the center of the earth? The database was insatiable. Meanwhile, I spiraled farther, deeper away from the light that broke against the crust and dirt, toward a molten BACKGROUND AND LIFESTYLE: A bit of story comes floating in. Winter's gone but the bit of orange fluff that fell out of her pocket when she left is still sheltered in a crevice next to the shmaltz. Is it possible to turn seeing inside out? I enter my secret word (Laundromat) and regard the picture called myself. I look bruised. Bruised by the need for contact (F2F) and deprivation thereof. My data-body still craving her precision violence. Blurry lashes. Two, supple and dark. I log on and see what? ABSOLUTELY ZIP! Even the alphabet is running away from me. |
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