Prostitution Experiments in the Language of Colony

1st February 2024

Part 1 or Signaling the Annihilation of Roman Numerals

A hummingbird in Peru learned how to snore as I watched the video a second time:

a Chinese scientist spent sleepless nights recording the minutiae of sound

only for someone like me to allegorize rye, the similitude of a survivor’s snoreful sighs,

lo myself, poet, tired old youth after a cardiac arrest and respiratory distress: not yet 30.

Magnificent:

The hummingbird exists because I say so. My survival exists because I say so.

I have lost so much faith in the mechanical idiocy of my co-species that I’ve chosen to

write a single poem in English:

my weak-ass will dwindled between the buying of deadly experimental opioids to forget

to breathe a bit 

under a pool of my own vomit

and end up dying some,

and silicone telescopy warmed up to 42 degrees for two hours to soothe my soul a bit,

whilst the latest billionaire sire grazes the edge of space to obtain the title: Sir of space,

and another dozen nameless dames attempted thoughts of space to erase the sires that

came

after some of them imploded near an implosion.

They knew they cried whilst he believed he smiled.

Oh, Sir, thank you so much.

I feel so much better, for now I know that there are others worse off than myself

with far more than myself.

Sire of the space in darkness, grant me all metaphors’ oblivion that I may father

grotesques within the terrifying nature I hereby consist of.

Ten years ago, sitting in the courtyard of a posh illegal psychiatric hospital, Casa Bonita,

with a poet earning his meal by teaching the madman who was merely a pretender: Do

not write about yourself: make poetry absolute. Be remembered by a line:

Now I, recovered from the haze of idiocy and profoundly saddened by it: I hereby write

only of myself.

And with a shit-streak of pretension I untranslatedly decry (and may it remain so! That’ll

teach them...), I, forgotten ass of bronze: At ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas

conseram.

I likewise remember the choleric people of the Land of God who said I belonged not to

the oppressed people of Abraham, though I have since realized that he who spoke in

venom to me came not from The Land, so everything’s ok, and I feel ok. I don’t feel ok, I

feel old, I feel tired, I have seen white hallways far too many times in the space of a

year… I come not from here!

I’m allowed to insult those in a similar position of oppression to me… Am I not?

Why then was I evicted from my bed for supporting my Palestinian brethren?

75 days without the mystery-warmth that stalks between the softest skin on the human

body: a new body of most immoral tinge, such is man’s craving.

Hiss or the language of symbolic emotion, and we travel with the suitcases our mothers’

dead gave to us when we were born: Sehnsucht: Addicted to the longing. Addicted,

lost, screaming: Another! and Another!

Plumpness. I lust.

And I get up and beat my brains against the plaster wall of whitest anguish on which I

carved a verse from the Quran and a verse from the Aeneid: mountains and something

regarding Dido’s death I’m too lazy to corroborate…

And I get up and read: Questa felicità promessa o data / m’è dolore…

Soon hereafter I began to collect the memories of dumpster fires and maxims:

“Man is condemned to the normativity with which the strongest men make a living”.

I am writing in English, and with every word I write:

I kill an Indian sage and murder a Persian poet:

to be published in the U.S.A. is to commit adultery with colonialism.

The wife of everlasting death for him who knows not the tongue of death.

Standing tall at almost 6”, but a little less, though not lacking in the ability to lie about it: I

enjoy myself.

I sing tenfold the consumerist ballad of a man who sold his body to obtain a hundred

bucks for toys and forgot to acquire lubricant and thus paid double shipping and

incurred a loss… these mistakes are such that one commits them once a lifetime. I

almost died last week and my mother disowned me.

I have truly lost a part of versification’s art if no more new books populate my stands.

I speak the language of colony.