spiralism//lashing
Some lipsticks are better than others
for writing yyour name on a mirror.
When i say you, i mean y ou, charlie.
i mean i wasn’t wearing any
thhing after and so i rubbed my finger
tip in the seam of my scalp, in the part
of my hair, the rivulet of oil in between
the living dermis and the dead fil
aments. Sassy theosophy on the line without room
for ghosts. A knife too long for the birthday cake. There has to be sometthing more
than this. i drug
my dirtied thumb across the glass. How i hate
preservation. How i loved
you when you crawled
into space between the clear
coffee table top and the coffee
table to also argue against becoming
a remnant. Immortal. There has to be somethhing more than this and there is. Your
haunch
as available as my cat
who singed
again and again its tail
tip on the end of your cigarette and thought, only,
that it smelled of ash. i don’t fear
anything but being after. As long as i sweat i can write my name
in sweat. Languid annunciation; self-portrait; fake lash.
i’m made of what i’m made of.
i can feel my synovial fluid splash
and sp lash agai n as i don’t settle, as
my bones click chord by chord into each joint.
Skeletal glissando. If i’m dead
i’m going to kiss
anyhow. charlie, i spoke the writing that
broke the glass.
| Candice Wuehle |
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