A CUT AND WHAT IT MIGHT

FOLDS CURLED BACK AND AROUND AND CRYSTALLIZED AND REPRODUCED. THINGS WERE, BUT THEY HAD NO USE.

ITS INTRICATE DESIGN, ITS PLOTTED LANDSCAPE. THINGS HAVE NO USE HERE. ONLY ORGANS THAT SPIT AND SPILL AND RETURN TO A POINT. HERE, WHERE CONTACT BEGAN: ACTORS, AGENTS, COVERT, COLLUDING, WITHOUT EXPECTATIONS, ONLY UNDERSIDED DRIVES.

THIS BODY READS FROM THE INSIDE. A SLIP OF WOVEN THREAD, A SKIN FOR EXCHANGES AND FLUIDS, CONGEALED, FORGOTTEN, DELIVERED. ENCRUSTED, PROJECTION, RELEASE, EXPULSION, COLLISION, ESCAPE.

EVEN THE TINIEST HAIRS YOU SEE SCATTERED ALL OVER. BROKE, HERE, AND RUPTURED, HERE, AND WITH A LILTING DRAWL AND A LIPID RETURN TO THE INSIDE.

ARMLESS LEGLESS HEADLESS, AT A GROSS STEEL LIMB WITHOUT A KINK IN ITS TAILORED SWEET UNDULATING CRYSTALLINE SURFACE. SOUND ERUPTED, DRAINED TO A SCHRILL.

THEY KNOW IT IN THEIR GUTS AND IN THEIR RAW, RUINED SPIRITS AND THEY LOVE IT. IDOLS SWIRL AND PLUMMET, ERUPT, DIE GOLD, A DEATH INSIDE ALL OF US, ROTTEN INSIDE, JUST LIKE WE WERE BORN, ROTTEN INSIDE. WHEN YOU EXIT THE MAP YOU FALL AND A TONE BUBBLES UP, AND YOU CAN RUN THROUGH AND UNDER ROCKS AND LAKES AND LAND. THERE IS NO BOTTOM EITHER. ITS A VIEWPOINT, A PERVERSION.

AND BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT YOUR LANGUAGE TRICKLES DOWN THE BACK OF YOUR THROAT, HEADED BACK IN, IN A DIRE REFUSAL TO ESCAPE FOR FEAR OF AN EFFECT THAT COULDNT BE CALCULATED, ONLY THREATENING. NEVER PROMISING, ONLY CALCULATED. THERE ARE REASONS, BUT THAT MODEL WAS USED BY DEAD MEN WHO HAD ONLY NUMBERS, COMMUNICATION AS AN EQUATION, A TEST, WHO FAILED.

NO MARKINGS ON ITS FRONT, AND WHAT ABOUT ITS RIPPLED STEEL AND BRILLIANT BACKSIDE? WHO KNEW WHAT SMELLS GREW IN ITS GUTS?

A SLICK SPECK, TETANOUS PRICKS.

THESE SHATTERED COUPLINGS GREW OUT OF NOTHING AND WILL DIE IN THE DIRT A MESSY SPOIL AT YOUR TOES. THESE THINGS ARENT STRAIGHT, THEY NEVER WERE. TRICKLES OF WATER THAT HAVE SEAPED LOW BELOW THE SPONGY SURFACE TO SPUTTER UP AGAIN THROUGH FLESHY MESH LATTICEWORK SPONGY SUN-SOAKED, LIFE-GIVING SOIL. WIPED, STAINED, AND BLOODY ON YOUR BLOOD-FILLED HANDS.

FRAGMENTS STUCK IN THE GROUND WITH AFTERTHOUGHTS WITH EYES BEARING BACK DOWN AND THROUGH. CUTTING DEEP, LEAVING TWO MARKS, LEAVING ONLY CONFUSION BEHIND AND WET DREAMS OF A TOUCH OR THE SMELL OF A BODY THAT TOUCHED BACK AND YOU COULD TOUCH IT, AND IT MADE AN IMPRINT.

DID IT LOOK FAMILIAR? SMOG-FILLED SPIT. BUT TO GET AWAY FROM ALL THAT FOR A DAY, AND THE WHOLE TIME WHO AND WHAT WERE THERE, YOU KNOW IT. OF COURSE.

TURNING IN, NEVER, SLOW. AND IF YOU SAW IT FROM UNDERNEATH? YOU COST NOTHING, AND YOU SURPRISED ME ONCE, THEN YOU WERE NOTHING TO ME. TO SOMEBODY ELSE?

I THINK ABOUT THAT PLACE AND THAT TIME, AND WHEN I LOOK HERE I FEEL NOTHING. MODEL ME A DREAM AND MY HEAD WILL CRAVE A SENSE, GIVE IT TO ME, MAKE AN IMPRESSION, PRINT.

PLACED THERE IN THE BACKGROUND, FOR A PURPOSE SO OBVIOUS. BUT SLOWLY? THEN WHAT? SLOWLY. THEN WHAT.

PEEL BACK INTO IT, AND IT WAS ALREADY GROWING INSIDE.

GROW AND GROW AND GROW AND HOLES FORM, FILLED THEN READ.

JOHN BEESON