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.