ki_4 alvarez — Qui Parle

contemplation
on my
phantom
sex after
lisa robertson

I begin by finding the edge of my mistaken mouth.

I come to a force with no possibility for embodiment except for my own willingness to see it.

I will know its form by the circling of a drain at the foot of my spine.

How do I know an edge is an edge? By desperately not wanting it to be.

Signs of desperation: pruney fingers, questionable bruise.

I feel my way inside of you from across the room.

Whatever are edges for words.

In this way, what is impenetrable shimmers in silence.

The brackish aftertaste of dirt mixed with tears.

In this way, no separation is final.

Form is a lump of foam. Sensation a stupid bubble.

Prohibition, the puncture.

I hold my cock in my hand and grin idiotically.

My spit is laced with livid philosophy.

I know nothing of the weakness of small-minded men.

I just see it all as interconnected.

How do I know an edge is an edge? By desperately not wanting it to be.

Secularly, I am etched as myself again.

This is where I write about a sea anemone of fingers fucking your asshole.

I hold my tongue with willed difficulty.

When I look at a mountain, I ask, who made you? You seem formed.

I project my interiority into the moth resting on the streetlamp with single minded pursuit.

In this way, that I want to make you cry is less important than how I want to make you cry.

I collaborated with my desperation.

I feel both satisfied, and still, somehow emptier than before.

Now my voice is collapsing before me.

I was born on father’s day, after all.

My symptoms do not redeem me.

I pause for a somatic intermission.

My dreams are a woman being a man.

In so far as I am immersed in this symbolic fuck fest already.

I will know its form by the circling of a drain at the foot of my spine.

I kiss a shoulder that isn’t quite mine to kiss.

This is just the curtain-raiser to my self-abasement.

Stop me if I have said this before.

My delusion of control thickens into a form of pure potential.

The reddened clearing is cut into a shape that conveys my own form.

Every sentence I delete goes into a document titled “dump truck.”

I come to a force with no possibility for embodiment except for my own willingness to see it.

I know there are keener pleasures than my enjoyment of wet nosed dogs.

If I delete everything that frightens me, nothing will be left.

The aim of sucking is to keep sucking.

Is it our cock at all moments or does it shift in possession?

I fill my holes with things I can have to stand in for the things I can’t.

Now my voice is collapsing before me.

That was my self-reprimand voice, the star of my poems.

I pause right at the moment of crowning, when the hole is at its widest.

Your asshole is blinding even as it belongs to darkness.

In this way, no separation is final.

I feel both satisfied, and still, somehow emptier than before.

That wasn’t entirely dismissible.

What desire is implicit in this pollinated framework?

I feel my way inside of you from across the room.

Without repair I plant my feet down.

Here is a cock that can swallow you.

In this way, that I want to make you cry is less important than how I want to make you cry.

I name the blooming and withering of insubstantial phenomena.

I do not need to tell you it is enormous and rouses.

I come to lack an absurd degradation I never knew or thought I needed.

A head-bobbing heron makes up for groundlessness.

In this way, what is impenetrable shimmers in silence.

I spot bright orange from across the road.

I no longer play erotic badminton.

Two birds turn left together.

My dreams are a woman being a man.

I begin by finding the edge of my mistaken mouth.

Still none of this can go in the poem.

I am the loser who gets to decide how to end this poem.

It’s giving congestion and lace.

The brackish aftertaste of dirt mixed with tears.

Can I applaud the rigorous beauty of your limbs without wanting to crush them for a little bit longer?

Part of owning a dick responsibly is knowing when to use it and when to put it away.

Every sentence I delete goes into a document titled “dump truck.”

I like to be unserious when I start to touch myself.

I like to be unserious when I start to touch myself.

This is where I write about a sea anemone of fingers fucking your asshole.

I have been trying to find the most pleasurable relationship to language.

It may be a matter of situating my cock in time.

My symptoms are a man being a woman.

I swam in a lake of pixels organized like a temple of bare chests.

I collaborated with my desperation.

I called forth a silent witness to volley neurotic misconceptions with me.

I am telling the truth as if it were a deception.

Stop me if I have said this before.

My delusion of control thickens into a form of pure potential.

I pause for a somatic intermission.

We want to suck the surreality of our cock at the same time.

That wasn’t entirely dismissible.

I propose my body as a vessel with a flame-like rim in various crowded concert halls.

Here is a cock that can swallow you.

I listlessly gallop ahead.

I know nothing of the weakness of small-minded men.

Only a rose appears in a form I can tolerate.

I come to lack an absurd degradation I never knew or thought I needed.

I spot bright orange from across the road.

In so far as I am immersed in this symbolic fuck fest already.

What desire is implicit in this pollinated framework?

I was born on father’s day, after all.

I project my interiority into the moth resting on the streetlamp with single minded pursuit.

Form is a lump of foam. Sensation a stupid bubble.

Secularly, I am etched as myself again.

Still none of this can go in the poem.

Two birds turn left together.

Signs of desperation: pruney fingers, questionable bruise.

I am unable to chew the raw side of this steak.

I propose my body as a vessel with a flame-like rim in various crowded concert halls.

Without repair I plant my feet down.

I kiss a shoulder that isn’t quite mine to kiss.

This is just the curtain-raiser to my self-abasement.

I no longer play erotic badminton.

I have been duly rewarded and punished for my sadistic tendencies.

I am honest about the self-deception of artifice.

I just see it all as interconnected.

I found something to fiddle with in my hands while the moist grass itched at my crotch.

I do not need to tell you it is enormous and rouses.

I have been trying to find the most pleasurable relationship to language.

This has brought me to my knees.

I have been duly rewarded and punished for my sadistic tendencies.

Part of owning a dick responsibly is knowing when to use it and when to put it away.

Is it our cock at all moments or does it shift in possession?

I watch these baseless fabrications take fruit with my hands tied.

Spiritual insights are like jokes in more ways than one.

I am the loser who gets to decide how to end this poem.

I water and wait.

Sentences have become part of my body, sonically.

When I look at a mountain, I ask, who made you? You seem formed.

My god, keep talking.

We want to suck the surreality of our cock at the same time.

I lick an envelope over and over.

I am allowed to write self-negating statements in the bathtub.

That was my self-reprimand voice, the star of my poems.

If I delete everything that frightens me, nothing will be left.

I water and wait.

Only a rose appears in a form I can tolerate.

A head-bobbing heron makes up for groundlessness.

I make an effort to chase or outrun ten different cars.

My spit is laced with livid philosophy.

I name the blooming and withering of insubstantial phenomena.

I fill my holes with things I can have to stand in for the things I can’t.

I watch these baseless fabrications take fruit with my hands tied.

I called forth a silent witness to volley neurotic misconceptions with me.

I am telling the truth as if it were a deception.

I hold my tongue with willed difficulty.

My symptoms do not redeem me.

I ruminate on the kitchen floor.

It’s giving congestion and lace.

Prohibition, the puncture.

My symptoms are a man being a woman.

I am honest about the self-deception of artifice.

I listlessly gallop ahead.

The aim of sucking is to keep sucking.

Whatever are edges for words.

I swam in a lake of pixels organized like a temple of bare chests.

I am unable to chew the raw side of this steak.

It may be a matter of situating my cock in time.

I ruminate on the kitchen floor.

Sentences have become part of my body, sonically.

I visualize my birth.

I pause right at the moment of crowning, when the hole is at its widest.

Ángel Alvarez is a stage name.