Subtracting the Three
The tension of opposites? Yeah, it's ripping me apart – it's constant tension, it's always tearing. It's my attention. Why did God give me two eyes? Two hands? Even two is too much of a choice. There's tension in the two. There's tension in my attention. Look at this choice - look too at this two. Tension-attention. Choice will kill me. I'm writing this now in a half-window squashed onto the right side of my screen with another half-screen squashed to the left, Shorts playing, so I have to scroll every minute or so or let it play repeating into my two ears (although I've noticed They've made them longer now and I wonder if in the future we'll just be watching movies vertically). Two. There is tension in the two. It's complete but wanting more. It's a marriage without a baby. It's boobies without the motorboating mouth. It's a door and a lock without a key. It's the left and right brain without the holy split down the middle. It's the idea and the execution but without the other to make sense of it. Heaven and hell, okay, there's the one I know you've been waiting for. It's what I've been waiting for. I didn't know I was going to write it, or think it, before my fingers stroked the keys. That's my tension. I'm being torn apart, my insides flushed to hell and burnt into vapour on the first brimstone, my body sucked into the sky, evaporation - falling up like negative energy collapsing back on myself.
(Shorts have compilations I wonder how much more my attention can fracture)
Two lips. The bottom, glossy, wet in my bathroom mirror. The one I run my lipstick over. The top, yes, it tickles, yes they called it bum fluff. And then I bleached it. Black and bleach. Another choice, the two, black or bleach? I remember the shadow of the bum fluff. Light and dark, I'd see it in my shadow and hate myself.
Now, we speak about shadow. Eyelash shadow I paint on my right eye. My left is manly and bruised. Every sentence simmers, about to break into a rolling boil as I write this out because truly what am I to do? (Okay I'm watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2 now on the second half of my screen and it's really quite cheesy but the best kind of cheese [like mozzy sticks]). What am I do in, in this house that should be heaven but really it's my hell, bare heels dragged on stone floor, frog marched out of my bedroom by the Priest of my confession. I have sat in that cubicle where I was meant to tell my sins but they are not my sins they are His, not mine, and he is the sinner, not me. All I am doing is standing naked in my bathroom with the door locked with lipstick on one of my lips, mascara on my right eye, blood dripping from my pierced right ear and pus drooling out of my pierced cauliflower left. Hair tickles my left foot, the hair from the left side of my head, although, my right shoulder is tickled by my conditioned waves. I am becoming two.
What are you taking so long in there for you faggot?
Fag boy slitting his wrists again?
No, the scars are on the inside of my thigh, not my wrists but anything below the waist father can't bring himself to talk about.
I have placed the key in the keyhole so his eye cannot see through the hole. I stand in the bathroom and I rumble in this tension. My right side, I look, with my right eye. From my painted toes of my right foot (I had an ankle bracelet once.) Up my shaved shin still smelling of the tropic fruit cream that comes out of the razor. Up my thigh until I can't look anymore because of the Totality - the Oneness of the penis that stands as proof that I am mad. But no. There is body and spirit. There is left and right. My left side with the hairy shin and the pubes.
(Now father is trying to break the door down but he'll be too late anyways)
(I turn up Pirates of the Caribbean on the computer I have resting on the sink)
My left side, the one He wanted and okay here it is. Yes, here it is in all its naturalness. My left cheek, bearded and oiled with the oils He got me for Christmas.
I'm not joking now, get out here
So, my left and my right in perfect harmony but as I said the three, the Threeness, the Holy spirited argument of Three - the phallus of fallacy.
He bought me the straight razor because it's what men use. He also bought it hoping I would kill myself with it. Another tension there, a present, a sentence. Everything has two meanings.
The steel is cold on my Adamic twoness of which I had tied around tight with dental floss. Now it's purple, another Three colour, a mix of the red and blue of the one and two.
The key drops off the door frame as father bangs loudly now.
Ha, I can see you, you little fag, what you doing in there?
So I cut it off for him.