the hymen self rendered (or, how genetically speaking we are constructed in such a way as to invite our own disaster) (with audio)

no one could understand unless they have stood inside the black storm calling it on, calling it in, with lust and love and mad eyes of a horse, no one could understand how to invite it in, to demand the boot, knowing the face is life, the eyes are life, but the head behind is death, no one could understand, and how you quiver paper thin, a hornet's nest upon the limb, calling it on, calling it in, the black night of death a pulse, a wind, no one could understand, and the boot, how it makes you tremble, this small case of you so paper thin, a husk of a nest abandoned but your last known home and you are but a mouthful of water hiding in the nest, calling it on, calling it in, your will to abandon become your voice, your desire to rupture become your pulse, to be broken against the wall of his coming, to release your single mouthful of water, (all that you are) to be born, to be shattered, to be disbanded in the simple thrust of madness, viscous sac, amniotic flap, no one could understand the dark throat of night and this certain disaster unless they've been willing to wager                                 all

                                  to be gone.

afterwards

on this side of this madness

on this gentle breathing linear side of this madness

my body rejoins its lines, its form

and reveals itself as a naked key

you are the door, the lock

you are the darkness that encases the hole 

(which is nothing - which is nothing, you understand! nothing!)

upon which the whole living dying world unlocks