Whistle.

 

It's a gold metal skull, the surface indented with crystals, leaving the hallow eyes, nostrils and mouth that grips between its teeth the stalk of a red rose. It’s comforting

to touch as my mind drifts to the apparition of an over 6-foot tower blast of scowling rabid dogs at my ear. At some stage I was pressed to be concerned by the appendage

in my skirt I assumed a species of butterfly. If you stroke its wings it dies? I asked my Geography teacher, he would not concede and threw me out, to stand in the

corridor for the duration of the lesson. When I discovered its proper name. It seems misplaced to consider it a species of flower which at first

I thought. Unlike an autophiliac I refuse to concern myself with exhaust pipes. I suppose there could be easier things to personify as dead. Though I refuse the

accusation that eroticism associated with inanimate objects is allied with necrophilia. At times the skull hast felt like a perverted object I might submit. Am I ambivalent

about necrophilia? I'm patient in trying to coerce the gold metal skull into being a preserved state so none of the parts rub off. I don't need the gold metal skull to be dead

to consider I then have her. She just happens to signify the dead. Why might I else consider her like a flower or species of butterfly? They don't last very long. The one

emerges from the ground into the air. The other metamorphoses from a caterpillar into a butterfly. They're largely inconspicuous, I could assume, to the Auto mechanic or Plumber and

Politician. But there's still the Botanist to be concerned by. And the Lepidopterist. I refuse to substitute such language for Gynaecology. The gold metal skull is of no

interest to emissions experts. It doesn't become incensed where it departs. It has no feet to stand on, but they weren't bound. Neither can it be considered an Angel, but

it's most un-human. I might not pretend to be part human excluding how I feel about it. One can steal skulls and make a claim for a boundary, location, position in space,

transposed fossil organisms taxonomic rank, class and file. But with this skull I don't think they make it that specific as I'm otherwise a mongrel and I'm not

religious. I'm Ignostic yet I'm still confused about the gold metal skull with a rose in its mouth. It refuses the binary male-female. It will not allude to the reduction of

X-Y chromosomes. Aside I couldn't assume to know my own, less strictly anatomical, my attention is fully on the rose in its mouth and the indented crystals.

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Notes to Verse - the travail of the mind – solicitations to think - **

Image
  Of the trust I give, As a child does, in a simple care untold, you brought, the fury to my heart. As my very centre is caught painfully throughout, with some part, so unspeakable, I am led to weep, abreast and agape with incredulity. Afterall with you, humanity, I am still, to provide a vestige of hope. Whilst another marks a line upon one’s breast, pointed blade inward, and your cry, alludes to a fear of the unknown - I am to cry, for the tragedy of life. And arrives the day, I recall on the remembrance of Christ, how his resurrection, is sullied and torn into the mythic – a narrative History of Christianity alluding to its dogma, and superstition -   conqueror, preying upon the serfs. Truths born, departing into the smell of thickening angst. God a majestic trick of the powerful, the tyrannical, the apex predator.   For another, I consider, of God, and his son, on high, a hope, for echelons and ‘hero’s’ unknown yet, one mi...
Read more

Notes to Verse - the travail of the mind – solicitations to think -

  Notes to Verse - the travail of the mind – solicitations to think -     Of the trust I give, As a child does, in a simple care untold, you brought, the fury to my heart. As my very centre is caught painfully throughout, with some part, so unspeakable, I am led to weep, abreast and agape with incredulity. Afterall with you, humanity, I am still, to provide a vestige of hope. Whilst another marks a line upon one’s breast, pointed blade inward, and your cry, alludes to a fear of the unknown - I am to cry, for the tragedy of life. And arrives the day, I recall on the remembrance of Christ, how his resurrection, is sullied and torn into the mythic – a narrative History of Christianity alluding to its dogma, and superstition -   conqueror, preying upon the serfs. Truths born, departing into the smell of thickening angst. God a majestic trick of the powerful, the tyrannical, the apex...
Read more

Dysphoria.

  The groaning hips, the erotic body he visuals, I use as tips, bullets in the province of an ice cube fondled. Cold to the circus inside, transfiguration reaching for the end of a sleeping bag. I make a magical circle to garner supernature. I might then catch a glimpse of my tail and swallow it. My sight beholds the inside odyssey as preferable and yet I transition from embodying the womb to gawk at blood held in a sack. The event of scrambling to understand the extent to which another’s phallus is still a flaw to him can be travailed by the responsive beyond of the not quite female. That state so unsettled by identity as gendered she makes you cry insulting you so gravely just so you'll leave her alone. Via separation she will in turn be quietened and not view you, so further detaches from her self-loathing as a She at all. She, offender of the lifeblood of Patriarchy. As if oestrogen were the central cow subduing a brief pride that might be mad, a conduit for origina...
Read more