Body Chronicle by Justin Phillip Reed

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by Toxicrocket 

(i)

in a sea of men, a sense of drowning, naturally. this is not yet your concern.
purification by way of penetration is neither new nor the end of this body’s
story of immersion. in essence, innocence moves the other way—runs out:
foam at the mouths of rivers, foam where the falls end, feathers where
the angel fell, white where semen lands. red: fell ikaros, a man in angel drag.

(ii)

fellatio in a red sedan. barn outside and coral moon slung over secret fields.
this trucker-father and you shifting your lost head down, up, down deep
in the denim lap. later, you and trucker in the autumn house bathroom.
the haunted one at the top of the stairs. red gagging. the hands, missing.  

(iii)

coat the bulb in red like latex. or don’t. makes no difference. the mood
is static, the mind unmade, the bed a black door. this here red lit dorm room
is a museum of your history of bowing before the body. [don’t make me. no,
never mind. screw it in.] 

(iv)

screw it. the body’s response to being transacted, re-worn: it frays. it feels
as if it will keep enduring. it locks away safely the soft moronic object.
showers run cold, clear. scrubbed skin ripples away from you, a copper ash.

(v)

you catch a cop, carry the man on your back and together you rut
a great divide into the sheets, threaten the wall with a loud hole.
[­¿me quieres, papi?] [sí, te quiero] meaning hurt me. ache blossoms
make the air red as poppies. you lose the used condom somewhere
in a black fold, a last nod to whispered law. home to a phantom weight.

(vi)

wreck-deep canal between two unmapped oceans: two husbands storm
your orifices, trust-fall into you, wear you like a wedding band, share you
like oil slick on a red tide. bareback. the panic fans out. [wait, stop] comes
your wish silent as undertow. red scare. risky kid, overflown. 

(vii)

body as no man’s land, as scars and scores. land as solid where heavens end.
ending as fixed point-of-reference for reflecting on causes in tangent.
field to be rent. battle to lose. body not as temple but as altar carnage.  

(viii)

you and the uncut man like two trees eclipsed: one in a stage of late maroon;
the other fathoming depths, laying rose root, leafspeaking [clean] and [i
promise] and [yeah? like that?] fell tree, spreading forth, bowed over
in the seedy breeze of the best sex, unbelieving, breathing [please, be
relentless] as if begging the angel to cross the threshold, as if a blood cell. 

(ix)

the body manifests red fury in self-preservation. skin-deep stop lights
signal screech this to a halt. you, losing air— [stop] to punctuate
the rambling flesh. [stop] to separate time and again. [stop] for breath.
[stop] as in quit it. addict and desist. validate him, [no.] touch and
[don’t.] the transmissions like the treacherous river [run.] crimson 

justin phillip reed
Justin Phillip Reed

Originally published in Rogue Agent Journal

See all the pieces from 29 Days of Beautiful here.

 

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