Art: Naked Lunch
I Eat, therefore
I can switch my gender at will.
the tv static is
not exactly thing
but pulsating slightly
with electric breath
$’s not a thing per se
warm and wet
essence hot and viable
money’s green is red
My sex is money
I femme beast.
Well, this body’s brand new, chrome and svelte hairs
prickle the upper lip. I follow a strict shaving regimen.
I have just learned to swallow again.
I have just learned to enjoy baths.
The water distorts proportion,
I have poured into it something milky and opaque—
water’s shadow slinking toward the drain,
a darkness that smells close like lavender,
like Troy burning because we fell for the old trick
of believing our Ego through the distorted water,
where it was larger, more perfect, and further away.
if your touch is some thing
it’s a horse
running along my spine
in the warm afternoon glow
of a sitcom I see your herd coming
to reclaim this territory—
the thingness of you is strongly defined,
recombinant and hooved.
1. sexopolitical infographic
topography of BODY in motion
topographical map of a constantly moving body
with no center
2. hyperactive sexual desire disorder
The post-industrial century of love
in the sex line at the supermarket
it’s always bustling.
examinations under white florescent light,
to thumb through hallucinogenic vaginas
hermetically sealed plastic ovum.
This is not done in secret—it’s secretive
airy or smooth
a gooey blemish covers all the apples.
No one will buy them.
Soldering masculinity onto my legs,
we are back to heat and iron.
weakly flapping skin.
Hermes’ winged shoes in their grotesquery,
1957 the USA institutes a ban against selling live human bodies.
flowers of vitriol bloom
from the smog machines that stalk the streets.
I reach into the past to pluck
an armful of arms! Finally
I unleash a confetti gun of sperm above you
The future, a fractured enemy hormone
splitting off into the flesh
making thieves, tv-junkies–
the air viscous and yellow;
each screen is a great jaundiced eye.
Everything’s better in your Instagram
than in my life. When the digital mosquitos bite
you can take them by surprise, into your mouth
and hold them on your tongue like pinpricks,
or sloppy kisses from a lover you didn’t like.
When the digital mosquitos come, they come in swarms
they are not itchy but hot and black,
the moment before you faint in Summer
because you forgot your house code
and it is sweltering outside.
Every swipe is a swat at the bloodsuckers–
they come for your information
they come for your encryptions
they will take away your jeans
they will overexpose your photos
I will not let them take my advertisements!
I am a fish slipped through the net
and the mosquitos this time are flat gray sharks
with huge bubble eyes, the real brand name sharks
like Great White and Death.
Nor will I accept your overtures, Death,
like— hey who isn’t coming, that person is a tool
for not coming and dying. I’m dying all over the page
but not because I accepted your date,
not because I like you; because I am datamining my body
into techno-hell. The $17.99 hologram of the virgin mary
ticks, her glow is automated sensation.
The bugs are full of progesterone from gorging on Real mammals,
each day at the same time they arrange themselves in concentric circles
and fly around our heads.
when the digital mosquitos swarm, it’s in the shape of a prison
made of bubbles, light forced through rigid plastic apertures.
Anna Mirzayan is a PhD candidate in Theory and Criticism, working on feminism and cyborgs. You can see some of her other work in Former People, Bluestockings Magazine and Carcinogenic Poetry, or visit her Twitter @brekekexkoax.