I want you to touch me like I’m glass
and burn me like I’m paper.
Rip off my skin and savor my blood.
Eat my fingers, joint by joint.
Drink wine from the hollow of my
Cradle the mountains my hips make.
Break my ribs and make a house of marrow.
Unearth my sorry lips and let me
Savage my body. Sacrifice it.
Let the world know I’m your doll.
There is no tomorrow.
A girl lies in wait under the darkness of
The weeping tree.
A girl, whose hips are blue and red and
Whose smile is similar to the sound
That a sparrow makes.
A girl, who gathers a crescent pool of rosebuds
In her hands, hands of lilac, hands of grey.
A girl, whose soles are soot and bleached,
Who carries her gravity in her step.
A girl who laughs her name as if it
Were a foreign tongue, a girl
Who calls upon the stars for light.
The whole apparatus of the western cultural tradition is a death machine, the negation of reality, a reign of the fictitious that has accumulated every kind of infamy and injustice, exploitation and genocide. If the refusal of this logic is condemned as madness, then we must distinguish between madness and madness.