on translation

by Feng

I remember the dark red holy land from which I bore
through the soft shell and the mothermouth
caulfarrowed and acidic with alive blood fast ahead of me

All my life has been a roiling in the mud to get clean.

There was a time I hated my mother and motherhate is the kind of hate that speaks about itself that is I did not want to be what I was

and I roiled in the magma of filth with the purpose of ridding
that is the purpose of getting clean.

And poems are not poems but essays.
Essays not saying but trying.
Trying not trying but trials.

And it has been the place of pigs to roil in mud though pigs are in fact very hygienic creatures

oh their fury is not even of the fiery kind they are kind and clean.
And in this industry it has become customary for the pig to be sliced in a way such that they are not clean
and their own shit re-enters their meat we make into our meat

and it has been always already the place of the lady to clean
to bleed and clean and receive the dead

it has been already always the wetland of the wombed
to render cook and prepare the meat we are tenders to meat
tenderers of it

In fact I love to cook I have many wooden spoons disgusting with bacterial remainders of such and I have cooked while menstruating as the tiny revolt squeezed through me

dead eggs trembling in the black eye.

There was a time I did not want to be a person because
a person had to eat and a person is laden with blood
dark smelly blood is in me and through me and from me
the gunk blood the thick blood the invisible blood the worst of all the brother blood the Iris blood that keeps on blooding and that is the speaking of history among the gold jewels of midas stupidity right now, right now.

This is a series of sow births in a grid of crates.

It should be horrifying to you that I am translating in the most worst basic way with morning sickness I do not want to say metaphor because it is deeper it is a boring into not only carrying across though both are one in the relation between familiar and unfamiliar,

and translating is more invoking of the tongue, of rendering, of death, of heat, of fat and grease, trucks and packaging

and farrowing

and reproduction

and I believe that tongues have language before language
that the sow’s writhing is clear and clearer than language

if the artist is a mediated medium I do not want to be an artist

but my first translating always already happened when I broke my mothermouth

and water came out, and thick gunk blood came out
and I watched from my little eye the big bad big bad
and my muscles slithered with a million tongues before the tongue

when you call me a something like poet or artist I squeal out
not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin! Huffing and puffing I come you come shuddering through chinny meat.

Industry is shiny and easy to clean and the pig blood flows light pink into the gutters along with the brown tea

Now we are more meat than ever. Now we are more meat than ever.

What everything must pass through is meat. The homunculus meat
shivers with its five parts starlike we stars of meat.
Voices pass through meat like a fever. There is nothing left after the vibration but the singing of meat.

Do you think that you are special because you have a tiny computer that winks at you? I have felt special before when someone called me a cyborg but these things only make us more meat than ever. I am so meat and I try to speak, thinking about important things, things that cannot speak. I don’t know anything I am an obtuse dimwit jiggling pig

things pass through me through the meat
the traitor the bile
the grinder the bile
the translator the bile
renderer tenderer

Metalanguage is meatlanguage.

The pork tries
it tries very hard.

Now she is already dead.

This little piggy had fun.

This little piggy had none.

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