by Feng


now that my love has turned around and I can see his evil face
I have thrown up dogs and cats representing sorrow
when I pick up a book and open it, it is dead
I cannot feel when I read the interior design
of the refined soul
and even the ugly poem is refined
Oliver, what can you do for me as a gingery dream,
the sweetest of white men
can conspire with me and my triangulated support of their supremacy
there is nothing you can do for me
I can no longer write from the soul
because this is my soul now,
the landscape is still fertile and I am in exile
united garbage of the world,
what can I do for me and what can I do for you, savage soul
how do I know the beauty of the world and how can I show yourselves
when you are trapped inside a grand maison
hm hurry yes I stand
I stand for the ones who are lying down I stand
for my asexual thunder
instant stream
stops time and halts the black gauze carriage
is it different when you step in
the instant cannot flow
the center cannot hold
soft butcher soft femme soft devotional butcher soft pain soft radish soft radical sex
When I take you in the water is frozen but we fall throughout
you are a downtrodden rainbow of abuses and mistakes
and the most gorgeous of reflectors
baby toaster, sparks flying, your body sputters and you set fire to my hair and clothes
slowly the mechanics break
everybody has a heart but I do not
I have an academic wound and a hungry soul
I have a stomach that touches and envelops your rusty client box
you are my coughing divinity
wrapped in hydrochloric acid my coughing heart
I fill in the cracks
power surges