The Loss of Poetry

A filling fell out of my mouth after this + now I have to go to the New River Gorge at 8am to get it fixed. 🙃

Playing in the Appalachian rain. 🌧

My desire punished. My desire rendered repugnant. My desire maimed by another's ego, his shame, his words + mouth + tongue whipping me wrong. What I thought was wanted was not, contorting himself, he says, around my desire to turn it into something he can enjoy but still can't get off on. My desire gone limp. My body that never knew to hate itself learning how, being taught. My body shutting itself up, a now shrunken head blind to its own desire. It is too hungry he said, my body. It is greedy + it rubs his mind raw. He needs his sleep. + my body takes it all too far, too long, too much. My body of burden. My desire a chore. When I ask him what would please him, he says it kills the mood.

Super camp cringe city couple photos with cowboy boots + denim ofc

x

Found poem by Moriah Pearson - sourced from John Gallagher’s review of Bernard Cerquiglini’s "‘La Langue anglaise n’existe pas’: C’est du français mal prononcé", published in the London Review of Books

Ah! But to paraphrase + plagiarize Terry Pratchett to some varied extent, the tongue, like a person, travels + goes away precisely so it can come back. + when it comes back, see the place it came from with new eyes + extra colors; or I suppose in the world of tongues to savor + enjoy anew the mouth it came from with refined + refreshed senses + tastebuds + words, so it wouldn't really kill him in his sleep or anyone or anything.