Milk and Filth

(And the Mouth Lies Open)

12 ( A n d t h e M o u t h L i e s O p e n ) The wave comes down, so duck under for its smother, each is a planet to colonize: the one with hotels, the one with plotting old women in an apocalyptic debtors’ prison. Classic fiction is colossal ruse, the site of Ponzi fraud. Please note how much it costs to be muse: the toll of influence, cases and cases of Dom Pérignon, full-body depilation and the most lavish immortality unguents online. Clothes that are maybe too young for me, and the attendant mortification, fake brunches. I pay for affirmation from a woman in a white noise office who guides me through behavior modification and trauma, yet I’m still only a morsel of authority: my print is barely detectable in the camber of the canon for which I gave my egos and my wits. I’m a nervous fiasco if only for your sanction. My alternate reality is a dimension where a psychiatrist stares dumb 13 at my bosom while we talk about drowning in the suds of dish rags. In this other one, I don’t ever discover the compulsion of verbal cunning. I’m a science fiction movie and electrocution makes me a Frankenbride in Technicolor abjection. ...