by Feng

my contemporary biography reads
no duality of mind and body, self and flesh, body and archive,
motion towards the earth/death
then i am calculated and the speculum widens

what touch/is

the body reconfigures
the sublime/linal
in living, continual opening
wound cultures
no commonness between firsts and thirds but in the compost of decomposition

somatic poetry
of the body as a site for inscription so
deep it becomes fracture, decay as the only
social body, the limitations
of understanding as it comes from the body
as the body is written it bleeds

how does my “work” relate? why do i work and how
does anything work
i am amazed at this force that drives without us
i keep submitting

please accept my submission that it is easy
to dissolve as a nonentity
the educated postmodernist undoes
unwrites the body into revelatory fields
flat as the midwest where i was born
so what do u give a fuck about
i made my arm bleed
and now it makes a line on progressively infinite skin
this is somatic poetry i have exceeded nothing but feel erotic

feelings intense
feelings intensity

clarity: the dead fold into munnies

i seek Princess Abandoned as i abandon her/self

the encounter of another / the sincere gaze / even of things /
what exceeds the self is not opacity
opacity is self without others
solitary confinement is worse than death
in death you are joined with the collective of the dead

you become munnie

but what about me
i’m made of plastic
i am more collective than a chinese worker

“collective social” not “impenetrable” but my being completely penetrated/porous/invaded, open to the accumulation/collection of others to the obliteration, not exclusion, of self
to become filled and turned inside-out
collective social is a Y axis and the self is an asymptote
all eros a banging towards invisible barriers
and visible barriers, a ruptured skin/skein


appearances do not make an appearance to me

because notes do not denote

my past forgets itself i cannot remember present past myself
to place myself

so i displace
even the in between is not good enough

it is

psychotic to imagine the real
apparatuses that kill
so far away from death
the art of dying

things are stupid like this

the beginning of poetry in the secret kernel that is stupidity
a stone
a snail
a riddle
an illumination inside a rectum

am i giving you the experience of your life?

the claim of others
over property and things
made by other others

then it is stupid to submit to the claims of others

i still am
a piece of flesh dribbling
my wounds speak more than words
i will not assume

and clams
remember when clams became the living things that died
for trade

i am thinking
therefore i am stupid
i have a cunt
like a smashed clam
chinese thoughts deprived or lazy of history
designated but empty
let my stupidity and hate
allow the dead the dead

bored by my own role as depressed heroine i wonder
if i can depersonalize more
the waiting quicksand quickens like a heart
hearts everywhere
a world of hearts

as a poet it is awesome to think about feminine me
trapped in image
to be trapped in the image
of a different register
lyrical absence
abstinent lyric
more or less
than the photogenic sea creature with dark lips
the poem as object
is an agency of waiting waiting to happen
do u want to penetrate me?
abjection beseeches

imagine the stone under water
ungraspable unbreathing millions of years
only a sound
not even a gasp
the labor on the body never ends the crushing atmospheres
so deep

i see
the eye implodes
i see nothing but feelers

the cold center of the earth happens in the future
heat death feels
the call of future within
if indeed relation is impossible and all the attributes of stone are
attributes of the new whore within me still
fuck the numerous
i am