} ATROPHIED PRESCRIPT:
The eye pulses the white slug with a million million
woman’s breasts into itself. Two slugs rubbing their milk
flood on one another asexually. The slugs sharking each
other with no teeth: is that a human entity? Burn it in an
inquisitorial bonfire. Who is reader? Who is writer? Who is
slug? What slimes? Mostly we are wounded. You and I.
Alive.
On Fire.
Leaking in and out of our letters. Mostly you’re not
supposed to mention that writing is false. Mostly you’re not
supposed to mention writing inside of writing. I says
something about I in this text, and it says something about I.
But only a sliver.
Some slight thing about the genitals that fold into everything.
But still a sliver.
And ultimately all of this is corruption, all of this writing.
We jiggle our body-brains out our genitals. We press the
wounds of our naked eyeballs together and they weed
nervously. We leak the dumb matter of our notes. Death
moves and is didactic. Sex moves and is didactic. We die a
thousand thousand times. Our status is sinew. We loom into
the harsh sounds of each other meat-pink, threadbare.
Vomiting crucially into envelopes the fluid between us.
} ATROPHIED PRESCRIPT:
Text is affective. Contorted and overwrought we sit
in a circle and eat anus shaped donuts and are do-nuts in our
circle and this letter enters our holes and it is disgusting. And
beautiful. The donuts tear like fabric and the threads catch in
our teeth linking our mouths.
And what is a truthful statement? I makes no
statements as it writes. We’re all affective in our bodies. Ideas
flood down the threads. Do-ugh enters. Text hurts, and we
love-hate with immensity.
Such effort.
Such flooding.
Two bodies in a hundred hundred letters. Rip the
pages and stuff them down your throat, stick little pieces
text behind your eye. Pull these filthy things out of
enveloping ideas and make them your skin suit, a dark
act of reading. Such bodily slime coating all of our
bodies, all of our letters. The sweat, blood, and slime of
dead bodies the words of this letter.
} ATROPHIED PRESCRIPT:
All relationships are sadomasochistic. I imparts
complicated stupidity. We whip each other into animal-fluff,
we whip outwards into our letters. Hold a one of your holes
up to my eye and read its sad eye-squirt. I holds an eye in ass.
The volcano erupts. No easy sight. No one is a genius.
Writing is the dumbest thing.
I can’t really write for anyone. I can’t trust the
medium. Most bodies don’t read, and many just collect their
reading in their phallus in order to wave it around like
bloated sack of mastery. I have no taste. I eat rubbish. Squirt
some thick fig fluid inside of fried dough. Bit it and it glops
out both ends.
The throat gunks.
The eye gunks.
The is slime everywhere, refracting its own light.
The slime absorbs the light into itself like a coin in a
Rembrandt, roughly painted, thick with simultaneously black
and translucent paint globs.
} ATROPHIED PRESCRIPT:
Watch the complicated ways I makes uselessness contort.
Watch thought splatter out of the back of the scull.
Watch as it dribbles down past the back and into the eye I holds there.
Watch the rest slide out slug bodied.
These images and ideas are getting so critical and unclean. I holds an idea, its texture is abstract, it slides out slowly such that categories are constipation produced by our sliming guts. The thing with a hole filling the thing with a hole. The tube replicates. Birth a binge fetish: death is eros, eros is death. Force the extrusion back in. Feed. No excuses: writing is stupid and excessive. Lick what’s left like a freshly peeled genital scab. The petal of dead flesh on the tongue, the scum storm at the entrance.
Watch.
} ATROPHIED PRESCRIPT:
The ecology puts the self at that place of
reconfiguration in the swirling-penetrate, and circles there
until the place bursts and all that is left is a sea of exploding
blebs threading outwards into what is lost.
The letter rings into the eyes that ring. Trash paper
flutters its dark strings. The voice in the do-ugh the voice in
the thread.
A ghostly politics.
I makes the feminine masculine gonad into a
potato stamp and press out into this letter from a pink paint
made of lip slime. Egg-cum. Let’s call the pain the cut object
feels our writing. Let’s learn from that pleasure.
Writhing.
Attack, wound the thing to get at its truth. And
then the blood as a thread will cum out of a hole. And when
that is plucked let’s call it writing. The vibration between the
lines. Letters. Let’s make something dull and useless that
points to the trauma of being broken, together. Writing is a
rusty piano wire, a blade. I shove it in my holes and my
insides oxidize. Every hole breathes, every hole projects.
I metalizes out into your world, you metalize
out into mine.
Aaron Apps is currently finishing an MFA degree from the University of Minnesota, and will be attending Brown for a PhD in English Literature in the fall of 2013. His first book of poetry, Compos(t) Mentis , came out from Blazevox [Books] in 2012. He is also currently co-editing An Anthology of Posthuman Poetry with Feng Sun Chen.