Sunday, November 1, 2009

so, i am producing a heart

and they tell me of ventricles. ok, ventricles. i have to have a right one and a left one, but all i seem to preoccupy myself with is a wrong one. i miss one, ventricle. i miss one. so i have to have a right one and a left one, i can try - as i suck up my inferiority ino a superior vena cava, that does not relate but to my stupid triscupid intermissions of projections of past beats, i cannot respire; i want to produce a heart, that feels nothing. aorta. pass the aorta, please. i am producing my heart, so do not interrupt. i weave. i weave. i weave. i weave.
it is pulmonary, too common, for me to allow blood in this new heart of mine. but i wont. because i will not make a scene when it bursts, for i know it might. so no blood. i weave. i weave. i weave. i weave the valve. i will not let you in, and you wont let me out, so i'll weave. i'll weave. i'll weave in that artery, i'll weave. i'll weave. i'll weave that vein.
in vain, i weave. i weave. i weave. i weave, until things become more clear, more obscene, more useless, more raw, more naked - already slit open, thank you - i place my produce - inside, as i weave. i weave. i weave. i weave it in, in front of me - still, i won't let you in, but you won't let me out, and my produce, made to be blind, silent mute, voluntary - involuntarily, it beats. it beats. it beats. it beats

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