THIRD HOOKER POEM (mirror mirror in the dark)

closet closet in the closet the brothel is the closet I hide my narnia in. this is only an innuendo if you want it to be whatever floats your boat honey. life is an innuendo if you want it to be, sultry or cool or both, the temperature doesn’t matter global warming starts with cold winters, my hands are cold but I warm them on you and put your freezing hands on me mutually melting poles like a gasoline-fuelled roadtrip deep into the heart of indifference to the wider context, I release all my toxic gasses like stars like an ink cloud behind my red sports car with a thousand arms flailing around it nothing will go untouched nobody isolated and nobody soiled by my waste but whatever authority is chasing me at the moment, this is how I choose my battles my toilets to vomit the past into, you say that my firm eyes on the one standing in front of me are a sign of egotism, you say I should let go of the two hands to feel the seven billion around my heart, but great officer, who art in the one-way mirror on the wall, you whose face adorns my retina’s oldest image of my mother, your warmth is not the one I feel against my chest when I open the car door that sluices humanity disinfected into my body, your warmth is the blow torch that burns open wounds like an experiment an attempt to cleanse away all personality until only the dream of the cold marble woman is left and then we can start all over again with pygmalion at the brothel, oh how history repeats itself like a centrifuge of careful cleansing followed by mutual defilement you decide the program I’m just the temperature you set the machine to I’m just a mirror to your light, all meanings all body temperatures can and will be collected into this my secret cave with connective tissue like big sheets hung to dry and then tied together and carefully lowered from society’s window, this is not a party this is not an invitation to play, this is the hostage situation I was born into, a society that flexes its thousand muscles around me in a collective sigh of involuntary power, welcome to the world here is the maze you must fight your way through to find the cheese and eat it and then throw it up because mice actually can’t tolerate large amounts of cheese and actually aren’t that interested in cheese much rather cucumber and oatmeal and little slices of paté on toast, but a society cannot be built on bread alone my gut feelings not typical not old enough for the story that must be maintained to avoid losing the thread like a rope through the labyrinth streched out behind me like a tail just in case the destination is worse than the journey and I have to find my way back to the hole I crawled out of, this is only an innuendo if you want it to be however your boat floats on the sea of mutual indifference, this is the fort I build when I’m surrounded on all sides by family the black sheep that counts people to stay awake at night, I have a black belt in deselection, oh great prison guard, who art in the dusk juggling the people’s wills, if you want to free me from the prison of the mind then magic mark my words like studying for an exam like a trauma you have to work your way through like the snow storm that never stops and never moves, learn the difference between the passion whose gaze burns holes in my face and the passion who lowers lids and holds my heart gently and endlessly carefully until I myself withdraw with a blissfully resigning sigh, all sky scrapers all churches are made of the empty shells from closets that somebodies once flexed their autonomous muscles in like jaws like levator exercises, now towers of Babylon heavenward corals thousands of lifestyle skeletons with a cheese like a Christmas star on top, mirror mirror in my arms look at me now, forget tradition’s firm grip on your heart like forcemeat to feed to the holidays, seize puberty’s black magic moment, turn from the presents predestined for you and see that here is a closet here is a body here is a gate to walk through without opening it, here is passage transit to what you always imagined was behind the last door in the Christmas calendar behind your mother when she hid her hands behind her back at the beginning of December and at night right before you fell asleep behind the closet’s secret door

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