Bad Taste
A pleasure in proportionalism. Put them away, all of
you. Put them back where they came from. Take them
out one by one, placing them like toy soldiers in neat
rows. Plastic regiments. There is no reason, here, no
reason for baring. Only smile, placid, like a blank
specter passing at last into death. Good hygiene will
come to you in due time. Good care – they won’t be
falling, rotting out if you’re careful – if you have the
time, if you know the time at all. Could you sell? You
could. Put them in a jar of bile each night, clinking
against the glass. File them down. Make them soft
against the rocks that plummet toward you.
you. Put them back where they came from. Take them
out one by one, placing them like toy soldiers in neat
rows. Plastic regiments. There is no reason, here, no
reason for baring. Only smile, placid, like a blank
specter passing at last into death. Good hygiene will
come to you in due time. Good care – they won’t be
falling, rotting out if you’re careful – if you have the
time, if you know the time at all. Could you sell? You
could. Put them in a jar of bile each night, clinking
against the glass. File them down. Make them soft
against the rocks that plummet toward you.
A communist doesn’t whine – they show their teeth.
Pearl, mostly – and you need them, can’t
gum down the hard-calloused fist stuck in
your mouth.
(And above and below you, another mouth, grinding.
And above and below that, another mouth.)
And above and below that, another mouth.)
Mycelium spindled into fresh pink flesh.
Mycelium, delicate and well-constructed.
Mycelium, ambiguous in its relationship
to the hard white cap.
And don’t tell us what you mean. Scrape and bare.
Inelastic and disembodied. A bright grin – no, did you?
The darkness in the spaces between. And don’t be
dogmatic. There’s nothing there but hollow sound. Did
you see it? Yes, I did see it.
Inelastic and disembodied. A bright grin – no, did you?
The darkness in the spaces between. And don’t be
dogmatic. There’s nothing there but hollow sound. Did
you see it? Yes, I did see it.
Our theory is not a dogma, but a guide to action
Consider the long knives sinking into the meat
above the shoulder. Consider the scraping of
them along the soft parts of you and how your
skin rises, each hair attuned, antennas of desire.
Consider the bite on the lip accidental. Consider
the bite. Drip drip from your sagging lip. Both
the same – sucking.
The mystery of the vampire’s bite what does the sucking,
the vessels or the throat? Don’t you, don’t you like it –
the glottal sound of seduction. Air leaving the throat, all
your dead labors just for to live.
the vessels or the throat? Don’t you, don’t you like it –
the glottal sound of seduction. Air leaving the throat, all
your dead labors just for to live.
And lives the more, the more labor it sucks.
Resonance as a function of calcium, as a
property. Sound magnified along rows.
A tongue directing furiously the syllabic
alternations.
A crowd of them. (With gaps)
Scattered – on the pavement, dropped.
Pulp. Juice spilling through, stuck in the Scattered – on the pavement, dropped.
fissures. Inside, too, ice sent through nerves
ending in pulp. No marrow worth sapping.
Empty vessels.
Someday, the embraces. Someday, dental corrections.
Tooth by tooth. Too impatient, you’ll chip – no sudden
movements. Someday you’ll be possible. Someday, but
not now.
Tooth by tooth. Too impatient, you’ll chip – no sudden
movements. Someday you’ll be possible. Someday, but
not now.
Remember, comrade:
gnash, yes, but don’t forget to bite.
Ian Maxton
Ian Maxton is a communist writer and critic. His work has appeared in Always Crashing, Locust Review, and Protean.