flesh for fantasy

My pale underbelly, my tender thigh, my flute bone playing the same hypnotic tone. Inside the realm of the hapless witch lodged way beneath the play of children, priceless, hairless and underfed, hide the progeny of another kind. The living remains of what we shed, what we starved and what we sold. The cycles of the moon, a strand of your hair, a drop of saliva, a black cat arched, a kettle boils incantations beneath the murmur of it all. Inside my bedroom, the digital demon dances across hot rocks. My bed is a casket where these babies without sticks are made. Time is a memory lapse that I caress into madness like a rocket about to explode into space. I’m not imagining the end of a civilized kind. I’m not mending old clothes or tending the mother’s sweet home. Women carry their babies like empty weapons, they wear their bodies of bondage like dried old clay painted and obviously cracking. I’m loaded with dangerous ideas and I carry a big bag of left overs for whoever is hungry. I am here, always watching lips torn from the nipple and legs ripped open like zippers. I am here, always listening to the cash being counted, thrown in heaps over my naked body. Cover me with riches in blankets of things being worshipped and wail my forbidden name out loud. Feed me to the bank vault and eat me while I’m still fresh and fragrant. It doesn’t matter which way you fall, I am a net without holes. You don’t see my many lolling heads? Another preserved antique for sale. Another bulgy eyed baby getting burped, warm vomit sprayed all over my chest and I’m thinking about what sort of fish to fry for dinner. Did I wash those sweaty sheets? How many men can I chew and spit out before coming this way again….how many dollars can I bake and eat and then bury beneath my lumpy bed? I was walking through a graveyard and the tombs and headstones were blank and the new ghosts hovered above the mowed grass like they still had a purpose or like someone still owed them something, I was like, “Quit stalking me, I’m only passing through and I have nothing to give or to take from you.” But they followed me anyway waiting until I dropped a crumb or a coin…their stomachs still growling, their mouths still wet with lust. So I took off my clothes and said hop in just to see what they’d do…I said, “Bend over and take it like a man” they started hissing and dispersing just like I knew they would….fleeing from the one who made their dying face more clear. I can save you. I was willing to free them from their aching dream of flesh for fantasy, I was willing to defile them one last god forsaken time…and still I get blamed for their red balloon being empty…because cowards never die they just float like dust balls making excuses forever. And I am only semi-moved to pity. I’ve never much cared for humans- up close anyway- since we’re being honest, I have, though, cared for animals- and even then, I lose interest once their breath starts getting bad. I know bodhisattva this, bodhisattva that….whose to say how the doll gets dressed? Haha. I’m willing to go all the way to wherever the worst most vile filth pit whorehouse place is, just to make a statement that your pants are either on or off right- not halfway down silly little hungry baby ghost -Well, hiding is what the new ghosts do because they’re confused without their body to blame or someone else’s body to chase or to taste. No nipples, no skirts, no bottles, no blue balls…so the target is always easy, it’s the blind one, the child without a mother. It’s the one who can’t hold their liquor, the one who goes stag, it’s the dirty tongue, the wet rag. Bitches don’t just come disguised as women you know because down those dark dirty backstreets where men dressed like sexy, worn prostitutes sell their shaved and trimmed inbetween bodies to other angry men who dress their dick like a sucking doll or use it as a bottle for a pretty man baby with a mouthful of teeth – there is an entire species being created by the all-seeing serpent who never lies, but only slithers down the death defying alleys looking for new holes- holes in you, that you can’t fill or slip through… We always said “call on God” for a reason. Red flag, black flag, stop wheezing and chewing and blow up the big and the boneless for good. The viper and the cobra have a long a flexible vertebrae and we grew legs and hands and hoods and wings anyway. Poison filled our hearts because humans are a mix of many half breeds and askew disconnected dna -and we haven’t yet found the cure to this curse-the ruts that ruin making us bewildered and flailing, honestly lost and lacking in any meaningful skill. The horror is, we think otherwise….merely cattle with ego inflation…I was only saying, maybe we should take a better look at the other side that’s all- before we come to any major decisions about sexuality or beastiality, about origin or religion- about how we don’t really have life or that we’re even too weak to really ever die. In conclusion, I never played with dolls because their skin was cold and made of rubber and their eyes didn’t move and they never listened…because I’m not a twisted sister or an allegory. I’m alive like a wasp drunk on witche brew…tossing aside the worthless spew of wormhole bodies, laughing and stinging the night as I rise…while you’re all still wondering if there’s a hell.

flesh for fantasy,
Sharada Devi

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