In terms of direction your tornado expands, centrifuge bereft of empathic schema upon which trauma would be flung and categorized. Gravel for your access road, your scattered sparkle instead landfillbound.
“Tendency toward juvenile vandalism.”
“Contaminates in the reservoir.”
Modernity suspends its bodies within vials of polluted rain. Primordial hair was rumored to billow in peerless depths, diffracting beams of underwater sun. A dried-out cave rendering is the only proof we have.
I am modern: I cannot see when I swim. Lead me by the wrist over lachrymal turbulence, your wake of corporeal jetsam. I'll hold my breath, I'll owe you for this... I remember the wheat field a pinwheel splatter defiled. A tornado sprayed herbicide, catastrophes decapitated me, my cranium a prizecrop of abject hunger. *note: The acids which gnaw my stomach are gastric, but the ones who eat my soul are deoxyribonucleic.
All past and present forms: a loose collection of hollow space, of gilded dust and bone. I am a body, in terms of direction all bodies explode and precipitate their respective surround. Therefore I too am a centrifuge without walls. My own limitless resource is a transitive expulsion out of waste.
John Barrington is a poet from Western New York, now living in New York City. Much of his work concerns the subconscious image and process of the rural queer. His practice includes multimedia performance and music.
John performs as one third of the improvisational collective Cleo. He has poems forthcoming in the Berkeley Poetry Review. Instagram: @110aberdeen