yes, i'm a cunt

know this at last:
that faced with cunt you don't know what to do with cunt.
your mild lapping was distracting, your faster flicks, like traffic
i watch on some quick cold highway, devoid of destination,
and without presence; neither here nor there,
and where it all goes is a fact that leaves me wonderless.

you never understood
how the whole body opens. that pure cunt is oceans
and not roads;
is a river from the toes to the electric ends of hair;
that skin gives up every pore to blossoming sweat
and hot suns fly across the border of space and skin,
and skin and inner space; and inner skins unfolding spaces inside out
birth radiant darkness deeper than your dreams. and all of this
is infinitely more ancient
than a footprint on the moon.

this was my cunt (when you thought i was your cunt):
a lipstick gash, a slick of glossy paper porn
stickered on an androgyne,
an inch of open doorway for a salesman's foot,
the thin end of the wedge,
where some secret chamber lurking at the back of it
is best kept locked and not alluded to.

a barbie body, plastic dolly, sexless till your bore
your own hole in it, good god,
why should it not just slide shut when you exit it?
a wound that doesn't heal, "never trust an animal
that bleeds five days and doesn't die..."

you made a fetish of the frame
where you might have found a doorway;
you see mirrors where windows are,
glass where there is air.
and still you give out this

contemptous worship of the threshold
and cannot go beyond.
you put the wood in the hole, sticky fingers on the handles,
peer through the keyhole, ring ma bloody bell.
you lock me inside, lubricate the letterbox,
search for a turning with a slithering hand...

so know this at last:
when you hear me moan, it isn't cos i'm coming honey,
its because i'm going

into my own ocean
perfectly alone.