a clogging is happening under my skin
there is a clog in my body
my body is clogged

it has been happening for a while
i have felt it for some time

the sensation is stringy
borderline erotic
internal itch
balancing the line somewhere between promiscuity and pain

(
strings are forming networks
they are uteral, womblike, slippy
delicate hands weave impossible structures~
murmuring stories of fertile spaces beyond the confines of homogenous conforment
bodies must organise themselves at the beginning of time
make fast your heart before darkness devours
)

often
the clog lies dormant
sulking at the back of my consciousness
in the deep pit of my belly 
the clog tucks itself away in squidgy folds somewhere between a kidney and my cervix

it shudders
(i shudder)

(
celestial threads entangle all
they are intangible
benevolent
invisible sheaths knitted in whispered dreams
neutral escorts of unEarthly origin
the impersonal clatter of silverware at a chain restaurant
)

since the clogging began
i have been pulling long, knotted threads out from the inside of my mouth
beautiful structures woven like lace 
detritus picked from the brains of cadavers washed up on plastic beaches
the clog is a never-ending tendril of feathery flesh

And the rocks

Oh the rocks

How they cry with sticky pleasures

the clog sits at the base of my spine
it is curled around my coccyx
heavy yet comforting
the clog is a secret shared between the two of us
my own guilty pleasure

(
we leave tchotchkes at headstones to remind the dead we love(d) them
these trinkets are liminal
they glimpse death and wish it well
they are irrelevant to space
beyond time
they remember narratives the history machines spat out worlds ago
)

near my lungs, the clog feels

gunky

sticky

crystalline

fractal residue as honey goes hard

(it takes my breath away
you take my breath away)

the clog harvests my energy
syphons it off 
it nibbles on Ideas in larval stages
it is an immense squandering of energy
the ecstatic embrace of chaos

(
we sit before the mothers
between their legs
we pull at intellectual stitches
and glimpse something hidden deeply
i am a woman, he is just an Idea
yet still, i am held together with safety pins and the promise of your skin against mine
)

i thought about writing you a love song but didn’t know where to start

i saved twenty pence by bringing my own bag

traffic lights sing in bird song

if it is not for the dead then who is it for?

when the clog reaches my throat the pain begins
it is emotional
turbulent
course threads stick to memories of youth
raking them up in conveyor belt consistency
the itchy strands rip along my esophagus 
churning up time capsules 
i am helpless to their tyranny
i cannot look away

morphic resonance
crystal memory
the wound is where the light enters

i wanna watch you watch it burn

(
gravity is falling along curves in the fabric of spacetime 
i fall along the curve of your spine
i didn’t know one could be caught in a net made of spaghetti
and yet
here i am
)

i know one day the clog will dissipate
the unclogging will have been completed
i will be unclogged

but
for now
we remain mixed up in this fabricated reality

heart fog

chest heave

soon
we will wake up
and find ourselves 
here
fucking in a cube made of resin
flesh slapping against an ocean made of nothing
and i will never have been so happy

but

until then

i guess

i am here to hold your hand