I am slanting subterranean. while the world above hustles and whirls, i’ve turned inward. methodically spinning myself into a cocoon of spit and hair and vaginal fluids. a dark knit place of cryptobiotic pulses, where skin expands like yeast growing in moist dough, enlarging those inner spaces, forming new cavities to breath.
Do not look for me. do not dig me up. i am fragile to your footsteps and to you, i may look something quite grotesque. a metamorphose of rounded growing parts that move slow and mucilaginous in this dry desert soil. a slick, sticky slug of a bulging, binding loose particles that crusts when constricted. a camouflaged shell of my surroundings to hold safe the warm insides that churn in a long simmering cauldron. sliding me in and out of dreams—creepcreep, creaking my bones across the spinal arch of time.
It is Here i must grow, in this place of holding places. entangled in ancestral filaments of cellular translations that build themselves new homes from the old. remembering to hug myself softly to the continual crackcrack, cracking of new seams. splitting open for this new story that demands a feast.
Yes, i am ravenous. and as i pulse and prod and grow. i must feed. slurping down the sunshine through twisted tendrils and oozing mycelial exudates. feasting on flesh and blood and fruits and roots. gnawing at the marrow, peeling back the skin, licking the red warm froth of freshly taken life. feeding the inner claw of this primordial fermented song
that vibrates a hum to a moan to a growl to a groan to a gurgle and a gnash to a scream, screech, singing the word alive
Mother.
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