PSYCHOSOMATIC SWING

Drunk on this depravity so as not to wake up, to satisfy cannibalism and renounce responsibility, through the digestive tract. I know you want to. You are very much the same; similiarity defines us. But you trample more into this morbid everyday life, and you don't feel it, you don't know that you're more inclined to exploitation, unlike me, who resists and is inaccessible. So... what will we stick together today? We'll put on faces appropriate to the situation, stuffed with a mocking smile. Okay, let's get our act together and go there.

Step, step, step, we'll all tap out a comically funeral march. We're distracting humanity with this sharply schizophrenic laughter, animalistic cackling, anecdotes about us being let into the market with defects, and we're sowing confusion and anti-plastic propaganda. You know what, you have an extraordinary mouth, a gateway that encloses all existence, the universe of language. Let's go before humans have yet to definitively emerge to feed. I'm afraid they might kill us out of jealousy over our carefreeness, stuffed into a pipe. Let's go to the ponds and send messages in bottles. No one ever told you your mouth is wonderful, that many a carnivore would love to bite into it and defile themselves with you. And that tongue, a slippery tool of eroticism, with a metal that initiates the greatest desires. As this fleeting, hope-parasitic thought of mine trickles down my neck, my blood drains, I am possessed by impotence. The call, the blood, clings to my body.

Two bottles, two balls, you know well how one observes the world through greenery. So watch with me. Our glass shell integrates with the nearby tree. We are inside a wooden castle that breathes, and with its moist breath, it settles on us with a shiver, shaking us with increasing intensity. It surges in my veins stronger, faster, more frequently. The friction between us and the air grows increasingly intense as we gaze and perceive, our thoughts unpretentiously and brutally binding one another.

The moon is the color of assimilation dyes packed into airtight bags, floating in a bottle like a ship, probably tasting like a mint drop when you take it. It dissolves quickly within us, begins to work, returns in waves, rhythmically. And throughout this kingdom of trees, I listen to you breathing, to your body escaping from here.

You know, I've never smoked grass. Such excessive greenness would kill me at first contact with your lips. How can I incinerate hope, place life in nonexistence? Set my inner meadow ablaze with the sick belief that it will be more fruitful? I'm afraid, I don't know how, I don't know what, why, why? You seem to understand me somehow, though I suspect only halfway. You have your life and those beautiful lips and those eyes with lunar, cosmic whites. The universe in the pupils of those I imagined and saw. You evaporate like this from this bottle and lie on me, a perfect fit, a harmonious accord, a primal affiliation. I feel you penetrate through my skin. Saliva, tongue, metal intensify near my ear and initiate me, and lose me in this pond. Slowly, will, freedom.

No one knows. No one knows because they don't want to. Who needs my knowledge of the morphology of the human mouth? Drink the moon from the green bottle. And don't be surprised, little one, that it flows so sweetly through your lips, caressing, soothing, and enslaving you. The moon in the bottle usually demands at this time. It demands to be awakened, for eyes from the universe to gaze upon the world with that first surprise, in pupillary reflex. It's a pleasant dictatorship, because it warms from within, releases itself in various laughable eruptions through these lips, and so flows into the pond. Let us drown in this pond, each with a ball and chain, each with the wild nakedness of our skin. The newspapers will describe us, but no one will understand that it's thanks to our belief in fairy tales about water nymphs. That today we wanted to test whether this reality, in its rule, must be harsh and kill us at every turn. To drown in the pond, as the moon melts in a bottle. To drown through the mouth, thanks to the moon, which is a different color everywhere. To drown in this inner heat that stimulates us from within, to reach variously named peaks thanks to a ball and chain. It's a beautiful vision, my strawberry, delightful, insignificant apparition. So what if I devour you through my mouth, supple, fragrant with oblivion. Whipped by the summer wind for guilty nakedness? Supposedly, I'll abuse you abnormally through those lips that hook metal against the bottle and urge me so close to the green glass with their tongues? You clog my throat and choke me with delicious delight. I breathe heavily, lustful for life. So what if I possess you entirely for a moment, if I'll vomit you out later anyway?