managing your meatsuit


what no one has told you is that
your body
is rock hard armour of soft flesh
and balled up tiny fist
against the sharp dark night.

weak at the knees
and sight going like static on the telly
you weed yourself after you fainted,
warm urine seeping through a body out

curling up into a ball
when you realised you’d outgrown your mother
and marvelled at the speed of your own body
to hurt itself- ingrown betrayal of a toenail
picked at for eons
(planets shifted, umbilical cords collapsed, a civilisation tumbled)
until it healed unknown to anyone.

we have known limits.
nights are for poison
anaesthesia to the ownership of matter
and mornings for belonging to someone else.

my body, yours; someone reaching into your womb
that is not yours.
we have various crevices and orifices
and they are
all connected: touch your feet and someone somewhere sneezes,
or something.
call it 气 or vital energy.

call your body a home
call your body a cab
your body is rock hard yielding
your body is sweet soft resisting
curled up against the unknown limits of the night.


Artwork: Gaetano Previati Paolo e Francesca (1909)