Bad people
When the night was over
with a come-stained lip I uttered,
«The horror... The horror...»
— Tell me something about yourself.
— I am ambidextrous. I am the sticky rice maker. The body horror maker. The interior decorator. The witch.
(You: Je peux jouir sur tes nichons?)
1. Beds & floors & kitchen tables —
my private mundane Vietnams.
2. The swamp between my thighs
and my erect nipples staring at you
just like eyes with pupils, pink and hard, —
my feast of the plagued flesh
3. The cunt —
my bomb-shelter
that contracts
from inside.
— I don't think you are a witch.
— Who do you think I am then?
— I think you are a good person.
(Me: I never understood what that means.)
The selfie camera tells me
there is a cut on my forehead
(as small as a world and as large as alone),
it's OK usually,
but last night
I went blind
and
there was blood
in
my mouth.