the possibility
has turned ill
growing inwards
in small doses
of self-aggression
this body cannot can
take the outside in
as it is
without preparations
a mental map
to a safe place
the house in purse
salt and sugar
just in case
it faints
against this body
not mine, it
became fear
too much organs
a piece of flesh
holding thoughts.
in the supermarket
a woman
puts back on the shelf
valerian lozenges
when she notices me
there’re three packages
in her shopping cart
we know they don’t work
but keep trying
out of cruelty
a function of dispossession
from our thinking
especially when in PJs
at the grocery store
means implemented torture
long enough to buy
the excitement
of flirting with the ordinary,
a pop song
hummed by the cashier
bananas and bread
a generous discount
extra time in the queue
projecting sorrow
on strangers
a break from awry connections
although doctors say
an unhealthy thought
is encroaching you
it is not your own crash
there're no suicidal neurons
no, grey matter does not
wreck inner life
maybe it’s a death
drive, psychoanalysts suggest
i’d really like to know
who are my thoughts from
if they’re not mine?
a voice from the gut replies
they are clusters
of perceptions without form
translated by the nerves
into the language of
electrochemical impulses
dread overflow
the spinal cord
energy spilling
unmeasurable words
in the bowels
like caged roadrunner
brain and stomach
ambiguous worlding
a chemical rock
pricks from inside
the quiet ocean skin
what are the nerves trying to say?
does fear predict or trigger the pain?
i'm caught between the two
Upside down
–the gut says–
it's anal joy
for the cerebrum