And now for some (poetic) repetition!

My apologies in advance to the three or so of you who read this blog (hi! *waves*) for this redux interpretation of what I posted 5 days ago. I’m still working through the best way to articulate a difficult feeling–and in the process, hopefully to exorcise it.

And if anyone is so inclined, I recommend that when you read what follows, you read it aloud. I think it works much better aloud.

Happy Friday, y’all!

[UPDATE: Who’m I kidding? Nobody’s sitting in their room, reading blogs aloud. So I went ahead and read it aloud for ya! Check out audio file below.]

about masturbation and other words I am forbidden to say

It is undeniable. I am feeling better. I am feeling possible.
Many days I feel downright good
Save that one rotten spot in the back left corner of my brain
That I keep prodding like a bruise to see if it still hurts.
It still hurts. And I still don’t want to know that.
No. I want to know how I feel possible and not get distracted by how
As the animal reasserts itself in health
I find myself hungry again for things I still cannot have.

When I’m tired or when I’m anxious or whenever I feel again that familiar clench
Between my thighs, I think about the possible laying on of hands
Only to realize: the thing I am down there is rotten flesh
Gangrenous and oozing, filled with maggots.
And when I think today I will touch the meat and maggots
My mind like a tv with only one channel gets turned on
To entertain me with visions of cruel and vicious couplings
Violent bodies doing violent things with violent intent.
And if I think today I will ignore the cruel violent bodies
Listen only to the hunger of my own body reasserting itself
Then even my orgasm becomes a betrayal.
Its release flings me into an abyss of grief and despair
Where I choke and gasp for air that does not come
And inside myself I am falling falling
Days later my teeth still feel loose in my jaw
And I know some things are still not mine to have.

It has been months now since my brain began to lie to me.
Since that Tuesday night in January when I stood
At a street corner and waited for the light to turn and felt
My face begin to come apart as if run through an industrial slicer.
Damn, my brain whispered appreciatively
As gashes slid down my face and I felt even the skin of my eyelids
Split open in thick and juicy silence
Damn this feels so much better than sex.

When one betrays a thing with such deliberate intent
As I betrayed my sexual self —
When one learns to take as pleasure that which is offered
And to convince the flesh as it is touched and penetrated
That the harsh coldness it feels in the tongue and the hand and the cock now demanding response
Does not truly exist. Or if the coldness exists, then it does not feel demeaning.
Or if it demeans, then does not mean I am being disappeared.
Or if I am disappeared from the transaction, who am I to think
My true participation ever held import. Who am I to think I was ever.
When one betrays a thing with such consistent longevity
As I betrayed my sexual self
One should expect that thing will go away. Should expect that self will break
Like a clock that ticks but with broken hands no longer tells the time.
Having broken off my own hands, who am I now to wail
Like some petulant child that demands to know what o’clock it is
From the face with only numbers still hanging on the wall.
Who am I now to say it is not fair. Who am I to say
That I demand the right to put my own hands on my own body without disgust.
Who am I to say: Yes, I committed the betrayal
But I now refuse its consequences.

On Friday, I failed again to explain this to someone.
A spectacularly half-assed attempt even for me:
When I said to him “I feel foul” the one thing I am sure he did not hear
Was “I feel maggots moving
In my cunt” so now I am trying again
In the only medium where I feel brave, trying again to say:
We are angry, my body and I.
We are sad. We are ashamed.

And we are sick and fuckin tired of having words in our head
That I will not let us use through our mouths.


“about masturbation and other words…” is part of an ongoing memory project.
Additional installments can be found here.

5 thoughts on “And now for some (poetic) repetition!

  1. Not that I will ever know what happens in your head, but this one left me feeling more like I did than the other posts on this topic – very solid writing.


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