2, of Gray Sun

Awakened, the green snakes all over the body---

Which have become like knotted wires from exhaustion that only now while on pause the body begins to feel as if it were a comforter over it in this humidity. Robbed of strength from all the grown babies that had suckled blood unto its decay---

Robbed of strength? No, no, given up like when one feels that knife on the side and the knife asking for the wallet and the cell phone. The body thinks “This is to help this motherfucker” instead of fighting and risking more pain than just that prick.

The soul though knows that what would kill the body would enrich it and perhaps set it free. Foolery. What the body wanted was for the knife to go deeper, dared it every time in an elaborate suicide.

On the second time, that finger deep in the navel three times---

Each time, the body bowed down and up and down.

Each time, deeper.

Each time, the body sinking into the bed to escape.

The breath gasping, panting, swallowing the guttural groans.

It tells itself to take shallow breaths for the breath inhaled from the pelvis that would last six seconds would grant entry to that finger. And it can pierce the button and pull the intestines out--- that one, long, red snake.

The manghihilot clucks and clucks and then nods, telling the body to go limp and to trust… Relax…To feel the spine being ripped to the sound of cracks…Relax… To the neck being snapped…Relax…The body laughed in shock.

Relieved from the arguments with that mad room---

Grief soaked in gin, these two bodies in a vacuum for whom this body in the South frets and frets--- the green snakes coiling tighter--- that room of air and light now in mourning.

The vacuum has become a black hole that snarls, “You do not understand for you have not experienced this kind of loss”. The body raises its eyebrows at the fallacy of experiential truth. And somewhere there is a memory of a magazine that said that dynamites to arguments would be sentences like those.

The body is then called Hitler. It is being backhanded with slaps for its calls for restraint--- for finally unto snapping to a warrior The dead has been dead for two years and how long will you keep on crying like a watusi pussy and drive all who love you away in your teenage college angst--- for its absence.

Two bodies drowning in gin and they want to take this body with them. Onto grace, the body apologizes, owns up to the hurt words have caused, says that pain is inevitable but suffering is a choice, and so withdraws its presence and keeps its silence.

It is September and the body refuses to be a punching bag of love. And it is no longer Catholic after all.

And the tornado relents----

The body sends a poem from Saturday which is received with “It is fucking depressing.” The tornado is in a black mood, had cursed its mother, sick of everything, feeling like wanting to get drunk and screwing the ugliest whore.

The body mirrors the language, that matter-of-fact tone about drunken fucking with condoms and driving safely, surfacing in the radar once more in the single market---a word in German--- Weltschmerz--- the tornado then thinking of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern--- and so there is accord.

And so in the black mood there is laughter as they speak of plain tickets to places where they don’t want to be and remember September from 30 years ago, 25 years ago, a year ago, and then September now.

These reminders of the first loves, the first marriages and look at where it has all ended--- life now. The tornado then tells the body that it misses it, even if it’s an absolute pain in the neck. The body laughs--- pain in the ass, neck, balls--- your friend.

The green snakes all over the body warm---

To the gray sun, the body sits and watches the sky from between Santol leaves, so close to it when it is seen from the ground here and not from a tower there. The scattered nimbus clouds are almost pearl white and the light does not make the eyes squint.

The body wonders if it would just experience it or would remember it then as it happens in ink. The body sits, the green snakes all over warming, and reads what was sent to it---

I don’t want to tame you at all

But I need some calm

Or you will bring chaos

Reigning down on your head…

And the body laughs, sends the Sonnet 121 of a dead man as a letter

At exactly 3:10 of Peter Gabriel’s My Body Is A Cage.