party dress
the (a then passes over me, no recollection of a detail it is only that the then has willed itself in my fingers who know the coldness of the ac differently and the sense then, a revelation of the life beneath the finger nail, and now this then returns floundering beneath a new sense, to excavate beneath the fingernail, a flower’s bud spread early and forced to flower with petals unready, the horror, ah, horror of the current who now passes flesh and wall, the horror that as i live out of this then and that then there will be another unfolding. the intolerable peeling and salivating against over-brushed teeth, all things unready and thirsting anyway (to shred and then consubstantiate, all things shredded, history a lied thing and memory a rattling to wake us to the:)) floorboards, that subtle nervous system trying to communicate with the walls, only reaching air, impediments plentiful, shoes dirty up the floor (move my fingers, think of the way we always kept our shoes off inside the house, feel the tendons on the back of my hand, one and two and one again, watch one push a bluish vessel about, a dog paws at thin wire, stretch the fingers and draw them back in, pull the underside of the thumb with the forefinger, feel the skin separate from the nail and breathe at the same time), the place feels itself empty for the drunken joy of the light spilling from the backdoor to blackened yard, a continuous evacuation of yellow bile, weightless and falling too short of the tree. a paranoia passes through the host’s phone:
movement detected out back.
someone is pissing aimlessly out there to say they have, and you laugh watching a greasy cock waver in cold night, pissing, imagine the smell through the kitchen window, and there’s all these people in here producing a kind of loudness that attunes one to the quietness surrounding it (i forget i am anywhere for a moment as i tend to my tights bunching near my knees), a minor current in the coldness of night and you turn when she stretches her midriff shows. she moans (a tension runs through the head of the thighs, bounding down somewhere underneath my knees and up, reverberant around the spinal column, musculature snapping, the base of my stomach right above my hips is quivering and within my shoulderblades is the lunar aching of sleep rising over the rest of my body, i am ready to fall), everyone turns, looks, laughs, looks back at whatever they were looking at. her eyes are pinpricks through construction paper before an eclipse, bouncing marbles in the dark, black and white without median. she ought not to have a waist but the shape is there drawn by absence, a rare and pathetic thing, a magic of thinness. her chest is flat and awkward. she is some kind of whore, absolutely. she breathes with a pout, everything is directed, in perpetuity, she does not stop looking with her soulless pinprick eyes, back and forth across faces trying to read if they are reading her, the shape her ribs make as they give way to the flatness of the stomach, a landslide to a small prick visible to some degree through a thin and tight dress. her navel is a crater for cum, calamitous pit deserving of only more weight piled back in. everything she does ought to have been trained away in pursuit of respectability. having no need of it, she is continuously lascivious. she leans in to listen to someone and arches her back. eyes move to me, she smiles not listening to whoever is speaking and (through the achilles tendon there is a swelling towards the calf, a hummingbird’s proboscis shot through the sole of my foot, pollinating a shut flower, unripe and tightly wound petals, there is an ache threatening to topple me,) there is a heat in my pants from watching her lips form only half visible circles around air, a breath through teeth for an instant, all mannerisms designed for the bedroom, a conspiracy drawn by whichever forces gathered around her to make her decide to begin dressing this way, untrained and without guidance, a pleasure of knowing:
overall, childish.
a finger ends up somewhere between her lips, thoughtless(ness travels my tongue, blood near enough to taste through the skin of a finger, lightly biting, my teeth compressing my skin into an itching welt-thing, the heat of a lightbulb in the dark of a shut mouth) between us two the spread eagle ribcage of an entrance to a dark room, an empty receiving space, red curtains thin, you are watching the three windows visible of another house and the flickering of people past, reduced down to the modulations of a candle.
there is a tree, you think what it would feel like to hang yourself from it (blowing, i want to dig into it, feel it beneath my nails, emerging in clumps, feel the articulation of digits coiling up and into something, down the center of my palm a hardening, freezing and thawing with ease, place one arm behind my back, clasp with my left hand around my elbow, push my chest out, bound to nothing but the moving, blow the same way the tree goes, watches itself in the mirror) sticking her ass towards me i stiffen, inside her must be the remainder of 1000 loads, a lining along her intestines, never washed away, even past all the water she must push up into herself, she is breathing now a whistling sound, the tongue’s deepest point, where it is nearly only just another portion of throat a wave caught in time, a pitch unnatural, the guttural hiccup, as she imagines my prick’s head at the entrance of her asshole, the million nerve endings alive for only this. a life directed by that particular neediness. i would like to bend her over the island now, feel on my elbows the cold marble, the particular dissonance between that and her sweating ass, the equator and the poles contract to the space of our fucking, earth’s distance shortened. i will use her to travel the world and you stare into my peripheral vision waiting for me to turn my head, overhead lighting throws odd shadows through the kitchen, reach long into the dimness of the livingroom, bodies multiplied by the house, vibrant hallucinations of the half-known people.
(tickling my eyelashes) bangs are curtains just over the stupid broad’s pin-prick lit eyes, two pairs of feet before a play, trying to solve what it is that you are seeing, only knowing it to be more exciting that the thing itself, you must imagine it’s the mystery which is tantalizing, in fact it is the ankle divorced of a body shuffling, the ghostly object, that from there, the body could fall and be revealed in a sliver, that one could spring to the fore of the stage with a hook and draw it around the leg and pull, a skull may crack from the failure of the body, anything might happen, why it is there does not matter, only that from then on, something will happen, shuffle away or calamitous, as your years mount, a looming sense of fortune. i have always been a lucky boy. press my cock against the arm rest of the couch, rut slowly, she faces the microwave, the black surface holds her face as features erupting out of darkness, the top of a head, the bow of the lips, a berg in the arctic, the rest disappears in the dimness, everything else shimmering crests about her.
(muscles settle upon a flatness i cannot locate, a mist over lowlands and a hill forms underneath spit traveling down my throat, swallowing a sister to floating at sea, the tongue bathed and forgetting itself just as the body must, the same blank radiance as tissue paper and cloud over the sun, the obscure glow of pearl and semen in the dark colors the earth, it smells of earth and places which sprout midday in the light, everything a room shot without care, visibility without explanation, continuity of the day dissolved, a new span of time opens, fingers tremble in lascivious games, how far will we get in this light, the joy of going uncaptured by sun in this flooding of light without solar imposition. the brightness smears my interior, a vaseline laid without fingers doing so.)
new movement detected outside (intertwined arms with my hands just underneath my hips, press up and out, crushing my ribs lightly, exhalation forced, from the back of my throat a sound which occupies the width of the vacuity spread, a blackness from the future nearest to my feet, the walls and night sky are discontinuous visions) you see the interior as discrete yellow panes with arms and quartered faces, you see out here as clumps of lines without arrangement, grass is an intonation under my feet as she nears two trashbins in which her head would best be dunked as i pull her dress up and push her panties aside, and taste the savory flavor you know pools between her thighs at her taint. a line is at the head of a far off concrete wall, bright spear going nowhere pointed at nothing, a house in a sinking pool of ink.
a horse with blinders on struck at the side toppling, kicking in the mud, to see from so far and never be noticed this is the silent joy of the weed as it creeps beneath the flowering roses and daisies of a garden, to dig their own roots from beneath them, to spread from one plant to the next rosette disease, around the ring of her asshole a burning red the same as the many thorns overgrowing the branch and the weakened flowers a dim red the impossibility of her erection, a plant sapped of life by my unimagined desire, a head dunked into the reeking darkness of the opened trashcan (the flop of uncontrolled arm dragged up to rib, a fish fallen on the dock, heavy and thrashing, spasms captured at my waist in the grove between the rising hips and chest, i am hiccups, i am a few words coming out wrong, i am panties dangling between thighs damp with my sweat now cool to my skin by the night air, the sea’s evaporate in autumn night, fingers break serialize that elsewhere, delivered out of order, a cheap newspaper blown in wind, dreams of resort towns 90% of readers will never visit) and i dig myself out, press it against her tensed asshole (every inch of the body shut up in itself, a million things coiled inwards, without word or sign, ignoring:
black print on white page,
a grammar i would like to shut out, language best forgotten, without arrangement i would only know it as having been somewhere, instead of knowing:
perpendicular to you two:
yellow square eyes without gaze, and if there were, nothing but the yard disintegrating, should one stick their head out, a shuffling, raccoons fuck in the trash. reduced twice over, and i can fuck and stand across from myself, far in the back in memory, you will only have:
islets whose peaks are all that emerge from the sea, landmasses to see others, a string of perches, everything is low resolution and shimmering, various sequences passed through, attempts, without word or thought, to possess myself once again without tending to the breathing and moaning, the subterranean matter, century old paste now gristle between forefinger and thumb.) her shirt rides up her chest, outdoor light pours aged preservative fluids across her breasts, small enough to fit each into my mouth, large enough to feel my jaw tell my eyes they’re wider than my stomach, a specimen held skinny against surgical blue of the bin, her hair:
fractures creeping down ancient wallpaper, the moles are spots of black mold, the odor on her skin, too clean for what she is, bleach in a motel room, dark hair fuses with the black maw of the trashcan, she is a whole body blown by a mouth that can’t keep the suction, gaps in teeth, and the spit sparkles, waterfalls in promotional photography, a million syrups on the rim of the trashcan, a diamond crust fellates her empty head and stupid shoulders.
(soap poured down a drain, watch it come back up in huge singular bubbles, some community forms between the reality of plumbing and our intestines, hiccupping, the process of wasting lingers in my mind, bubbles pop back into emptiness, microseconds of radiant sparkles descend to the mouth of the drain, i can feel spit beading at my lips, a limb descends to the black matter at the floor of the bin, i am conjoined, three rabbit thrusts, i am disjoined. i am joined, i am disjoined.) the head of my cock emerges, a triumph writ in mucus of an asshole which has sat in wait, she is more mollusk than human, hair spreads wide, the foot of a slug wriggling. i want to stick my wet cock there, feel it wrap around my dick, a snare fucked into catching itself.
you watch me pull her backside, you watch her turn, rare seconds of silence, you can’t hear anything from the dim eye who dangles from the near corner of the roof, set at a surgical dutch angle, her penis dangles and she is knock-kneed for the bloomers around her calves, a stature of embarrassment (feel wind pass between my thighs, something wet at the tip of my head, confused, the same shimmer at the edges of the garbage bin, a hiccup is resting, it will not go anywhere, stalled breath waiting to become vomit as soon as something enters the stomach, the feeling a catechism, repeated until it is visible as the entire terrain upon which the future occurs, material ground, rotten earth, i am the dust bowl, i am a stretch in permanent suspension, my nails are thirsty, i watch him swallow, adam’s apple the knot of a tree in timelapse.) i am trying to say words, i am beside myself not listening, you’re watching me wait to re-enter myself, you’re watching her not hear the words you can’t hear, you’re watching her chest, face, running makeup, (my nails are thirsty and i move my bloomers up, over my cock, the band is a comfortable biting, groove settling into skin until the feeling becomes invisible, 30 minutes from now, it will be a part of me, at home, i will shower, lay on my back in the tub, feel the grooves become little puddles, overflow, tidepools a belt, a degree of nudity he cannot recognize. he is speaking, he is quieter than the wind, i am not sure where the wind is, the sound is on my skin, i am a vector of echolocation.)
i put my hand on her shoulder, pressing against unmoving stone, i want to cum in her hair conjoin us in a knot which has to be cut apart, a child ruining shoelaces by over-tying, a twentyfold knot joined with her asshole’s mucus, dry into glue. a humiliation and an asymmetrical hair for the next six months, obstinate goat-bitch thing is:
(throat caving in, light on saliva, minerals dropped into a pit, tongue shimmering from a new mouth opened beside the vocal chords, a mcdonald’s new off the highway strip, (you watch, the back of the open hole, reflective shining in three dots down to darkness), fingers of god disassembling total darkness to check his work over. (nails scramble, from the inside looking out:
you’re not quite sure what you are seeing, fingerpainting in apocalyptically bad lighting and:
he is trying to breathe in, a sucking on my fingertips, his throat’s echoes of my asshole as he fucked it, i can’t make out where i am, thumb against each digit in series, pull back the skin, feel the edges of what i caught of him beneath the nails shrivel in the air, he emerges in clumps, becomes a jerky, from my pointer finger to my pinky and back again until the blood clots and dries an ugly water color on my skin. he is drowning awkwardly, without the sea to prop up the act;
you watch the velvet noise of the throat for the third time, focus on her ass until the nails return).
julien yacek is unemployed in las vegas.
