Dear lovely legs dear love my legs in this better pond we are coming together my fingers in our genitals in a swamp we’re coming together your hands with fingers splintering in our genitals in this pond with chemicals so close to a way in a way in a way to weather the holes tic tic tic oh that’s such a cliché together is so hermaphroditic tic tic tic but this is the frog frog female female all that mal in us in our best pond are you singing now can we find each other over a ruckus of planes a dread taint through this swamp who are you to come traipsing through our fucking our lovely love we’ve birthed without you and now you build a home here with soil coo-roak coo-roak coo-roak we’re trying to understand this “you” we’ve made out of the hairs that fall in the bathtub or stick to the toilet seat we tic tic tic when you flush when you push yourself down the drain your factual waste your evolutionary boundaries.
The Ns (Some sit. Some kneel. Some continue to stand.):
The anxiety of listening is sometimes overwhelming. We do no thing.
On TV a puppet like a frog. It sings. It habits. It things a past. Gestures.
Yep yep yep yep yep yep a stage. When we was just a tadpole.
L.ve .il spill rev.lt electi.n rubber bullet ri.t gear p.nd water in a h.se. T.weet a d.g a bird a clear edge. It’s n.t easy being. Fr.girl y.u’re n. saint. What if sex is determined by infecti.n. A bullet p.int between fingers. d.t d.t d.t
A cartoon like a frog. Dances. Wiggles. Slaps. Flip the grenouille. For our pleasure. Frog in formalwear sings if you refuse me. This happens. This happens. XX XY XO. It’s all there.
The present is a weather among weathers. And if under
such conditions we make a beginning. We refuse legs
armscupschairsgametesatrazineforksvasesart local and cosmic
input as influence and desire. Subobject. What happens next?
The genital opens (certainly opens) in clean water in dirty water in crop dust. Our future selves are giving birth again. A pond full of sex. Now determine the kind of dying away from history that occurs. Molecular switches. Girls? Speak! (Pause. Silence.)
Pause. Pause. Pause.
Bow. Walk off.
You wear mud. You swallow. If we’re financing a voice many voices so down in the mud then I loves You as a way of spreading. Data curtsy. If girl on screen. If frog on screen. If YOU refuse ME honey.
Meanwhile I have to think of limbs. Squatting in this swamp with wet lumpy present stuck to my legs as many as there are. Is there time to learn love for concrete for chemical control at the centre of allthing? I’m restless for duality to be some other better. Frogs leap up and take my fingers in their mouths wont let go. I can’t keep up with this future in a poetic tic tic tic. This weather is a real city it oceans wider. It breaks, going as it does into our mouths. Go on. Go on. Lick your fingers to the wind. I understand: legs mean. Accommodate. Be so wide. I wasnt ever on a plate or a mattress displayed with roe and saliva. Get in or you can’t. Be the upright beginning of location. Behind us words stuffed and sleepy from their dinners. What if love is not wide enough and the future is many walls breaching?
Pause. Pause. Pause.
Curtsy. Walk off.
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