Goldfish Song

There are only so many words. The world, when opened, is thick. The brain, when opened, is white. The stomach, which sees, blanches. In the desert, an under-ground. In the under-ground, a rattle. The woman, when opened, is a desert. My heart is the size of a gold-fish, which is two or fourteen but in most cases most cases being horrible sickness two inches long. Potentially because I do not know French or Portuguese, I have never stood nude by a waterfall, and I tend not to kill or think of killing.

The tar, which has been dredged from its sea, our sea which I call my sea, is black. It adheres. It leaves part of itself on the surfaces that touch my foot until it is gone from my foot. The tar, which has been pulled by something called a rig, is gone. The rig, which no longer operates, is lonely. Its half meets cold water. Its half meets cold air. It looks at the land. It will look at the land as the land is the land and the water is the water. Seabirds.

Because I am feeling the heaviness of all things and because I think I am clever I surrender my body to my love who holds the late rancorous components dumbly. I’m thin. I dress provocatively. I fall over in my chair.

My heart, which is a goldfish, is a valentine made out of construction paper. My stuffed tiger is a stuffed tiger. My guitar is made of wood. There aren’t any smells. There remains media. There remains chemistry. Though water, which is chemistry, is waning. There remains syntax. Though media, economic, have been stolen.

It is cruel to advertise and yet.

My body knocking heart in sex inverts as a means of completing a schema. Because I think I am so clever. The stomach, which sees, is full. The stomach, which sees, is empty. The stomach, which sees, is full. The stomach, which sees, is empty.

There has never been such a thing as a pizza party just as the affair hasn’t ever existed. Inches, a schema, measure heels which belong to shoes and goldfish and mostly cocks. You are holding that like a cock is a text-message I recently received. I typed the word cock and my text-messages displayed the word cock after indexing all the words (there are only so many). Those who abhor schemas are dead to sensation having let go of the nerve. The nerve, when opened, is cybernetic. Those who love reference yet abhor schemas have killed sensation by embracing it. The word cock is produced on this page five times. And those who have resisted sensation have failed.

There is a communications system local to my body. My heart, which is a goldfish, is a diagram. When I lift my arms my sweater reveals two breasts. My heart, according to a schematic, has been placed between them. My breasts, which are sexual in nature, make up my chest, where my heart beats.