The body. The body is born, is born into a pool of sacrificial blood and artificial fat the color of rainbow sherbet stirred until weirdly brown at the base of a thin egg containing a throat-like vibrato of corruption and entropy.
The body. The body is in the shit with the feathers and rot, is in the pink blood and orange organs, in the half-tones of half-formed bird feet.
The body. The body in the translucent glint on the flaking keratin of overgrown claws made of the same material as rhino horns, in the hook-shapes peeking their form up from the strange blend of neon foam.
The body. The body is born inside of the body like a bubble vibrating up into itself, like a horse trying to fling its rider to the ground, that is, a horse whose musculature cannot fling anything downward, cannot because there is little to distinguish the heavens, the atmospheres and goddesses, from the shit, from the perception of inhuman eyes and wormy compost.
The body. The body is atavistic in the sinew and syrup of the Cadbury Cream, in the yellow ooze where the shame foams, in the yellow within the yellow within the shamanistic sense that vibrates against the habit of pointing fingers and yelling names like a 13 year old boy with an unendingly stupid erection.
The body. The body is all fat and covered in boils shaped like eggs such that each contain the misfortune of stars, such that each contain the pointing upwards of a broken compass that happens when the center of the earth is the center of the universe when the earth is the dumbest link on the chain of being, the shackle of form, the expectation of spherical beauty. The earth that is the last dangling sphere of soap on rope fitted nicely into the ass, beading upwards into digestion to wash out the idea that there is this grotesquery behind shells.
The body. The body is a thinking being ugly in the confusion of the ground, in the guillotine of motherliness, in the dull axe of patriarchy, and everything is fed on goat’s milk out of form of human tits, tits formed, ultimately inhuman, like large egg shells, like spheres out of thin sugar, and that thin sugar is filled with vomit and shit and the body’s own sense of beauty.
The body. The body has a strange aesthetics, maybe, has a weird sense of beauty, maybe, has a slimy sense that is a cruel contortion always against an abstraction, against a false futurity, against an immortal construction of skin and muscle like a Greek torso that’s lost its limbs, that’s lost the weirdness of its paint.
The body. The body is oil shit, and the sugar is too, is dead matter made out of corn syrup made out of dead matter, is the fat bubbling with shame in the shit, in the corporate folk-tradition of motionless and steely paranoia.
The body. The body is worm paranoia too. Behind every shell is an inhuman rot, a half-grown chick flooding its birth sphere with small red worms.
The body. The body is behind the eyes, behind their egg-like form, and is a viscous sludge of unfillable dreams, of enforced pastiche realities where all of humanity points from the scaly skin of their ape joints out into a murderous expectation.
The body. The body is a force that pushes the worst formed of the eyes into a shameful state of tears behind coke bottle glasses and a desiccated face. Behind fat. A force that forces fatty shapes into their bloody and polychromatic rot, into the premonitions of half-formed chicken bones and brown feathers freed of the possibility of flight.
The body. The body is a force that throws the shit out while keeping it always viciously inside the thinness of the egg’s form.
The body. The body is the always collapsing thou, collapsing like the center of an undercooked soufflé within the egg, collapsing like a dead lung.
The body. The body is.