Aaron Apps

I HAVE NO TASTE I AM OFFENSIVE

My mouth swallows fat and crap and then crap spews out of my third eye.

What I write is offensive, as far as I can see, it’s a kind of dumb ugliness,

But it’s not like anyone cares, really, cares the public into the personal,

It’s more perverse, more perverse than my fatty spews, really,

It’s more like everyone sells out, sells themselves outside themselves,

From the outset. I sell myself too, on a small scale, but at least I have scales,

At least I can claim a certain fishiness. I sell myself to ineptitude,

And to the perverse list of things I swallow, and to laziness, and

There is a perverse continuance of such pointless sputum. I swallow

Mulish and disobligingly, I swallow with my mouth that’s full

Already, full of myself full of food, my fat self in my fat self.

I sell myself into a feedback loop, and, in turn I break my back,

Softly, I break my spine with fat into the soil’s suppurating incandesce,

Softly, I break my spine into my eye, my eye that is me eating me,

Sold into me, my ass, turning my movement back inside again and

Again, painfully, and when I think I get this mass, its functions,

This flesh, this growth of useless shit tears sliming as I emote

Between fat, I wish someone would mansplain me, insult me,

Me and my thoughts I don’t understand, my fatty fatty thoughts,

Directly, so I could swallow the explanation from their face

Like a cannibal, and that would hurt me too, in terms of calories,

In terms of fat added into my cannibal fat, and maybe the explanation,

The unasked for explanation, will prove nutritional as I live in it,

Inescapably in it, the way it’s always offered up, like shit to my white mass.

 

 

THERE IS A TORSO GROWING ON MY BELLY

A lump. A lump of material on the plane, the surface,

Is agitated when observed. A lump of material gradually

Resolves itself technically into an ideal bust, an object,

A Belvedere Torso. I take the torso to be an imaginary for fat.

Still, the vapid form is idealized in its proportional complexity,

Imagined outwards into an ideal that exceeds the ideal,

And the lump strives towards this, has a telos towards this,

Has a purposiveness towards the concept of form beyond form.

But a lump is still a lump, and this lump, this observation of myself,

Is material that is agitated such that it stays haphazardly of fat.

Fat the ugly fluid below any high state of perfection. Creeping.

Fat sexes uncleverly wrought and full of lies and pastiche. Fucks.

Fat grunts. This lump is an excess of emotions. An excess of maggots

Foaming near the stone of the peach, split under a knife, dead

Through to its seed. A fleshy fruitless lump made entirely of fruit.

The peach, the lump on the surface, the surface a kind of parchment.

A surface of skin, stretched into a base, crumpled then unfolded,

Recovered from a vibrant collection of trash–a bottle cap, a dead cat,

A dead rat, a page of parchment–all captured in the drain of the eye. My

Fat skin. My parchment flattened into a base for the form to move on,

The single sheet, full of filth, the very thing that floods the peach

With maggots. A lump moving, busting, into the surface, into energy.

The energy of raw meat, the jiggle with no end, the looseness of.

 

 

JIGGLY PUFF

Toxic jello. I rub toxic materials on my fat lumps, all of them, and the rub becomes

A pheromone, a toxic attraction caused by the liquid seepage of sexy particulates

I rub from every lump. The rub between the lumps is a magenta variegation

That fills my box, my melting crayons, with a flutter in its airy fluid, crack on crack,

In the anal liminalness of the body made of black butter clumps, in the twisted rub,

Ecstatic in the amorphous anatomical element of jello cheeks. In the face and ass too,

In the cheeks puffy all over my toxic body. I puff my cheeks like a thousand thousand

Jiggly Puffs. Puff puff, the air in the death flesh, the wet expanding pink contortion

Of this balloon from the cream cremation in the utterance curling as each lung speaks,

Speaks because it rubs, its weirdly round shape into the weirdly round shape

In the mouth. O. The scream, the yawn, the orgasm before death, the form,

The swallow and extrusion of form on form, the rubbing erotics of rhetoric conflated

Back into the cream of the profiterole, alive and murderous, and always subsumed.

This poem within a toxic scream. When I say toxic, I don’t simply mean the perfume

Of the deadly mattress, and the dust particulates it releases when it’s farted into,

I mean there is an inescapable inhalant breeding the very terms of the toxic mash.

I become in breath, beyond evil and evil, at the brim of a contorted cum of calories,

Phlegmy at the entrance to my face, the pink whip I hold between bloody cheeks.

My cheeks with their jello, with their own pink whip, whipped like an unidentifiable

Animal composed of entirely of blood colored cumulous clouds, whimsical and deadly.

 

 

Aaron Apps is a PhD student in English Literature at Brown University. He also holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Minnesota. His first book of poetry Compos(t) Mentis came out from Blazevox [Books] in 2012, and his second book of hybrid-genre prose, Intersex, is forthcoming from Tarpaulin Sky Press in 2014. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIT, Washington Square Review, Verse, Denver Quarterly, Los Angeles Review, Pleiades, Caliban, PANK, Caketrain, Sleepingfish, and elsewhere.

GestureAaron Apps