Genet Tells All

My hopelessness has become a (week-old) plate of anchovies, a trove of smells and eyes. Even I am tired, sickened of it, choking on the gagging taste as the odor coagulates to drip more slowly down the back of my throat. Those wet, trembling channels behind the nasal cavity. That powerful convulsion. How the body expels and eliminates, how the soul spasms to release the fecal fact of this existence. The only way to overcome this putrification is to embrace it: to find the bracing musk that makes the center of the stench, to stare--brazenly--back into all those blank, black rows of unblinking eyes, and, to locate one's disgust lower in one's body in order to harness the orgasm in this exorcism, and banish the graceless retching in favor of the more artful ballet of majismo and firework cum.