Desultory and Inert

It’s the anvil in the stomach that gets me. You never get me. The feeling of being tethered to the earth by your viscera. That insouciant look when you ignore me. So I’ve taken to overconsumption of foodstuffs—I call it foodstuffs, because what else can one call a slimy cheese sauce that coats the inside of one’s mouth and tongue with a sebaceousness that says: all American eats! Cheese is good food, but I can hardly call this cheese. This is really some kind of sign that I need to get moving or I will waste away here on the outskirts of civilization. You are nonplussed. Jacob Pablum is my name, and I am a horny canary executioner — out of work for a decade or so, and constitutionally unable to take a morning constitutional. You are eyelid flickering ennui. So, I pledge allegiance to my own, to the United Crates of Distemper and to the republic for which I grandstand. One evasion under fraud with extrusions and sniffles for all. That’s what I’m about. You are nameless and filled with inertia. The desert stretches out before us.

“I offer myself awfully
abyss frost
I offer myself
you frighten me
I offer myself
I don’t give a fuck”

— Alejandra Pizarnik / “Memory Near Oblivion”