i am a pig

by Feng

In my piglet days there was an island of time through which I thought
I was possessed. Looking into the mirror my eyes hummed into themselves black like Now
the black lifesnout widening or receding yet more prominent
more this dimensional and reaching out with alien arms

One of the signs of possession is the inability to recognize
self in the mirror glass screen.

My plucked body was brown and thin and the ribs were washboard strong
and my breastholes were clinical buttons and in the yellow light
bronze black hairs on my chinny by the hairs of my

and I could not place my scream in any of those places because the body had been foreclosed

something taken and something marked in a file elsewhere

repopulated

And gut fear is like depth stones where the nooks are all filled
stone voices, soft stones with ligaments and collagen the mixed rash mass

like the moment of perfect tension when sterilized skin splits under the scalpel
gut fear

and the fat springs up like a forest meadow oiled

the colors taste air with forked tongues in unexpected hues

the scalpel is tender and gentle and violent

but some types of fear are not gentle some of it is butcher and rough like
oily crayon scribble outside the lines I cannot go there
cannot ever have been there even if I have

oh then it is not to be spoken with air then it is only muscular stone

Now this little piggy is able to discern these islands of time
and it is manageable these times of richness and spectacular moistness the moistness of beady alien eyes. Nature eyes, bestial eyes, the Bataille eye lodged in the bacterial space.

Poetry is throughmeat is perforated not performed

Do not ask what poetry means but what it meats.

There is a sad sort of asking, a meating between voices or voids
how can a stone meat be a void you ask

don’t ask what it means but what it meats

I have said that it is too late already

there is no saving to be done.

I am not a witness. The pig has eyes is filled with eyes but it is a blurry world that licks these eyes.

I am not a witness but a wetness.

Is not the wetness of evil pleasure still a wetness? When I excrete transparent tears of joy when I weep gunk water by the hairs of my chinny chin chin I weep from a place of darkness disguised as light filled houses

If I could feel this light for you if I could be good if I could

These are haunted operations where the big bad creeps.

Eyewetness does not speak but leaks…

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