Aaron Apps

     The eye pulses the white slug with a million million woman’s breasts into
Two slugs rubbing their milk flood on one another asexually. The slugs
sharking each other with no teeth: is that a human entity? Burn it in an inquisitorial
bonfire. Who is reader? Who is writer? Who is slug? What slimes? Mostly we are
wounded. You and I.

     On Fire.
     Leaking in and out of our letters. Mostly you’re not supposed to mention
that writing is false. Mostly you’re not supposed to mention writing inside of writing.
I says something about I in this text, and it says something about I.
     But only a sliver.
     Some slight thing about the genitals that fold into everything.

     But still a sliver.
     And ultimately all of this is corruption, all of this writing. We jiggle our body-
brains out our genitals. We press the wounds of our naked eyeballs together and
they weed nervously. We leak the dumb matter of our notes. Death moves and is
didactic. Sex moves and is didactic. We die a thousand thousand times. Our status
is sinew. We loom into the harsh sounds of each other meat-pink, threadbare.
Vomiting crucially into envelopes the fluid between us.


     Text is affective. Contorted and overwrought we sit in a circle and eat anus
shaped donuts and are do-nuts in our circle and this letter enters our holes and it is
disgusting. And beautiful. The donuts tear like fabric and the threads catch in our
teeth linking our mouths.

     And what is a truthful statement? I makes no statements as it writes. We’re
all affective in our bodies. Ideas flood down the threads. Do-ugh enters. Text hurts,
and we love-hate with immensity.

     Such effort.
     Such flooding.
     Two bodies in a hundred hundred letters. Rip the pages and stuff them down
your throat, stick little pieces text behind your eye. Pull these filthy things out of
enveloping ideas and make them your skin suit, a dark act of reading. Such bodily
slime coating all of our bodies, all of our letters. The sweat, blood, and slime of dead
bodies the words of this letter.


       All relationships are sadomasochistic. I imparts complicated stupidity. We
whip each other into animal-fluff, we whip outwards into our letters. Hold a one of
your holes up to my eye and read its sad eye-squirt. I holds an eye in ass. The
volcano erupts. No easy sight. No one is a genius. Writing is the dumbest thing.

     I can’t really write for anyone. I can’t trust the medium. Most bodies don’t
read, and many just collect their reading in their phallus in order to wave it around
like bloated sack of mastery. I have no taste. I eat rubbish. Squirt some thick fig fluid
inside of fried dough. Bit it and it glops out both ends.

     The throat gunks.
     The eye gunks.
     The is slime everywhere, refracting its own light.
     The slime absorbs the light into itself like a coin in a Rembrandt, roughly
painted, thick with simultaneously black and translucent paint globs.


     Watch the complicated ways I makes uselessness contort.
     Watch thought splatter out of the back of the scull.
     Watch as it dribbles down past the back and into the eye I holds there.
     Watch the rest slide out slug bodied.

                 These images and ideas are getting so critical and unclean. I holds an
        idea, its texture is abstract, it slides out slowly such that categories are
        constipation produced by our sliming guts. The thing with a hole filling the thing
        with a hole. The tube replicates. Birth a binge fetish: death is eros, eros is death.
        Force the extrusion back in. Feed. No excuses: writing is stupid and excessive.
        Lick what’s left like a freshly peeled genital scab. The petal of dead flesh on the
        tongue, the scum storm at the entrance.



       The ecology puts the self at that place of reconfiguration in the swirling-
penetrate, and circles there until the place bursts and all that is left is a sea of
exploding blebs threading outwards into what is lost.

     The letter rings into the eyes that ring. Trash paper flutters its dark strings.
The voice in the do-ugh the voice in the thread.

     A ghostly politics.
     I makes the feminine masculine gonad into a potato stamp and press out into
this letter from a pink paint made of lip slime. Egg-cum. Let’s call the pain the cut
object feels our writing. Let’s learn from that pleasure.

      Attack, wound the thing to get at its truth. And then the blood as a thread
will cum out of a hole. And when that is plucked let’s call it writing. The vibration
between the lines. Letters. Let’s make something dull and useless that points to the
trauma of being broken, together. Writing is a rusty piano wire, a blade. I shove it in
my holes and my insides oxidize. Every hole breathes, every hole projects.

      I metalizes out into your world, you metalize out into mine.

Aaron Apps is currently finishing an MFA degree from the University of Minnesota, and will be attending Brown for a PhD in English Literature in the fall of 2013. His first book of poetry, Compos(t) Mentis , came out from Blazevox [Books] in 2012. He is also currently co-editing An Anthology of Posthuman Poetry with Feng Sun Chen.