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AUTOEROTIC
Velvet should be a color, a prayer to make something from nothing. Erotic. Paying attention to chaotic solitude, I want this poem to be a swan song, breath control tended towards intense expression. Asphyxia. Intentional restriction of the self. Baroque column replaced with concrete brutalism. Stimuli. Gasoline mist and the smell of tires in August. Selfie. Loons dive and surface to fill their lungs. Asphyxiophilia. A community of breathers. Hypoxyphilia. Two syllables and then three. Found breath. Growing up I thought everyone was Catholic. Control. I still have the fear of God in me. Play. The body is all voice. Selfies. Just like all poems are elegies. Intentional restriction of couplets. My mood this year is to give a name to each immolation. Restriction. The “duh” of enlightenment. Oxygen depletion. Movement in mass, larvae-like. Brain. Coffee never tastes so good. Lateralization. The public gets to see a diver with attentive posture. Increase of sexual. Organ folding into iotas of interstices. Healing. I am sanitized and susceptible. Arousal. I am scared and skeptical. Series. Love is not enough. Autoerotic asphyxiation. If the headache were more definite it would be less trying. Stimulating. Aftershave never covers the scent of the razor nick. Various effects. I spin plates on my fingers like I am in a circus. Precise. Silicone breast implants. Surveillance mirror. I am dust. Colloquially. You are dust. The atmosphere. All the migraine medicine has already given me short term dementia. Songs themselves. Stories preserved in windows across time. Colloquially. I wish for coyote, hawk, antelope, Madonna, home, clarity, love. Tripod. Unusual crying, chirping singing. Person. I have only ever loved myself. Engaging. I do abide by the rules. Period. Daytime facsimile of a dream. Instagram. The conflict of wanting to explore but needing rest. Selfie. I get sexier, more glam until it accumulates into activity, stress, stench. World war gasper. Persephone was wiser than her years, to let a womb devour her will. Erotic target location error. The MRI machine is a God that can see through my skin. Erotic asphyxiation. I don’t want to eat anymore. New Year’s Eve asphyxiation. Hide my head under a sack of cloth. Social support. Still serviceable but in need of a complete overhaul. Social support. I masquerade as human like a morgue attendant. Accidental death. I am thinking of you. Jpeg death. How much does it take to fill loss. Asphyxia. I feel a breeze graze my neck before drowning. Different. I am bone-sick. Erotic daydreams. I do not believe it. Accident interest. Do I? Physical flexibility. Did I? Day ceremonies. I am what is left of me. Sylvia Plath. A fistful of grass dragged from the earth. Form diagnostic. Dirty under the nails. Manual of poetry romantic. Bite me. Hallucinogenic states. I am trying to change. Self-strangulation. I am trying to change. Lyric American Psychiatric Association. I am trying to change. Tombstone at wedding. I am trying to change. Shame in women. I am trying to change. Accidental. I am trying to change. Shame in nature. I am trying to change I am trying to change I am trying to. |
