THREE FOLD EXPANSION OF THE FLESHY QUESTIONS PHOTOS BRING
1)
The engraved question. The question of how the body forms, seemingly, is a corporate corporeal mess from the primordial start. The question is one I return to like my fat returns to itself. The moment my cells began to bloat is a presence that escapes me in my present archive with its dusty fat drool, its packaging folded and forgotten. The moment I formed is a question in a collection of images of myself swelling in, in a neglected family photo album, broken at its spine such that cartoonish animals enter. Broken and animal from the outset, honestly, the moment internally, like entrails, has a kodak sheen. What thought is of import in the formation of flutter flesh? What do I see in my own eye? What part of my eye perceives me being perceived by a photograph? What mass grows as I pray at the mass of me meaty? What form is there to dying flesh? The pictures perceive me and my lack of atonement, my quiet rattling. Alone, how ferally I am vermin eyed like a tiny weasel.
2)
My god, my goddess, my dead vulture, is consumed and consuming at the carrion of capital because the collapsed body always, at some point, desires beyond the circle of itself, beyond the inscription etched at the edge of fat. My god is a grave, fertile in form, and dead material is the only polygraph test in the polygamy of carbon corpses. Grave (n.) a receptacle of what is dead. Grave (adj.) momentous in a serious or solemn way. Grave (v.) to carve or impress into the mind. I slurped and swallowed many dead things into my thinking, I remember doing it, or, I assume I remember doing it, swallowing. I think I remember cartoonish animals on food packaging, and how I’d spill their corny guts down my throat. Glug. Glug. I think I remember corn syrup. I think I remember riding my bike with a Big Gulp, and then crying when I spilled the whole thing on a bridge in the Florida heat. The sun isn’t a god like Stevens says, commodities is, and air conditioning is, and cups full of sugar ice is. What is this thing I call my beautiful death bath? O, my lips are blue with raspberry, and it is the source of my flesh in this blood cult culture.
3)
My purple tongue. My blue orgy. My orange utterances come from blue veins and are questionable, which means they flow with death wonder. Which means they answer themselves. I am subsumed. I lick this skin swell made metabolic in a memory and I stop wanting to be productive. I die. I eat. I stop wanting to procreate this historicity and instead I eat yellow out of every ass, out of every system of entrails, and crawl about my expansive self engorged in all of my senses. This eternity of tongue has more ecstasy than all of the geometry inscribed in all of the circles. It worms leaking in a cremation urn, a creamy urge, it is a plenitude of liquors and oysters. It is I. It is a stupid purchased convenience. It is horrific in this gaping wound, glistening with slime, deadly in its mucosa and corn flesh. It is voluptuously undead. It is these things that dry to the metallic bowl of the eye like vomited porridge. It is these questions that assume blunt answers.
1)
The engraved question. The question of how the body forms, seemingly, is a corporate corporeal mess from the primordial start. The question is one I return to like my fat returns to itself. The moment my cells began to bloat is a presence that escapes me in my present archive with its dusty fat drool, its packaging folded and forgotten. The moment I formed is a question in a collection of images of myself swelling in, in a neglected family photo album, broken at its spine such that cartoonish animals enter. Broken and animal from the outset, honestly, the moment internally, like entrails, has a kodak sheen. What thought is of import in the formation of flutter flesh? What do I see in my own eye? What part of my eye perceives me being perceived by a photograph? What mass grows as I pray at the mass of me meaty? What form is there to dying flesh? The pictures perceive me and my lack of atonement, my quiet rattling. Alone, how ferally I am vermin eyed like a tiny weasel.
2)
My god, my goddess, my dead vulture, is consumed and consuming at the carrion of capital because the collapsed body always, at some point, desires beyond the circle of itself, beyond the inscription etched at the edge of fat. My god is a grave, fertile in form, and dead material is the only polygraph test in the polygamy of carbon corpses. Grave (n.) a receptacle of what is dead. Grave (adj.) momentous in a serious or solemn way. Grave (v.) to carve or impress into the mind. I slurped and swallowed many dead things into my thinking, I remember doing it, or, I assume I remember doing it, swallowing. I think I remember cartoonish animals on food packaging, and how I’d spill their corny guts down my throat. Glug. Glug. I think I remember corn syrup. I think I remember riding my bike with a Big Gulp, and then crying when I spilled the whole thing on a bridge in the Florida heat. The sun isn’t a god like Stevens says, commodities is, and air conditioning is, and cups full of sugar ice is. What is this thing I call my beautiful death bath? O, my lips are blue with raspberry, and it is the source of my flesh in this blood cult culture.
3)
My purple tongue. My blue orgy. My orange utterances come from blue veins and are questionable, which means they flow with death wonder. Which means they answer themselves. I am subsumed. I lick this skin swell made metabolic in a memory and I stop wanting to be productive. I die. I eat. I stop wanting to procreate this historicity and instead I eat yellow out of every ass, out of every system of entrails, and crawl about my expansive self engorged in all of my senses. This eternity of tongue has more ecstasy than all of the geometry inscribed in all of the circles. It worms leaking in a cremation urn, a creamy urge, it is a plenitude of liquors and oysters. It is I. It is a stupid purchased convenience. It is horrific in this gaping wound, glistening with slime, deadly in its mucosa and corn flesh. It is voluptuously undead. It is these things that dry to the metallic bowl of the eye like vomited porridge. It is these questions that assume blunt answers.
Aaron Apps is a PhD student in English Literature at Brown University. He also holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Minnesota. His first book of poetry Compos(t) Mentis came out from Blazevox [Books] in 2012, and his second book of hybrid-genre prose, Intersex, is forthcoming from Tarpaulin Sky Press in 2013. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIT, Washington Square, Verse, Denver Quarterly, Los Angeles Review, Pleiades, Caliban, PANK, Caketrain, Sleepingfish, and elsewhere. He is also currently co-editing An Anthology of Posthuman Poetry with Feng Sun Chen.
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