The love altar (deconstructed - reconstructed)
Maik Cây
The love altar (deconstructed)
Deconstruct this old world,
from the fractured, exhausted, burnt-out
establishments of the past,
with your dick pics consecrated on my love
altar.
Old aesthetics thrashing headless
on a chopping board, scapegoated by its own time.
'We don't want new infatuations that rot on the way
to our Tabernacle,
we need passions that never die.'
thus said.
We treat love (tình yêu (cariad)) like we treat dead people,
forsaken,
embittered barren wastelands that used to be temptations,
horny honeyed pixels once erected that are now
flaccid.
'Stream flaccid music on SoundCloud.'
thus said.
'Now we also sell flaccidity!'
'Be soft and limp, we don't want erections!'
Psalm 41:3 'sustains him on his sick bed',
and keeps him sick for salvation.
'We now sell sickness!' - the marketing strategies: always consistent.
'Upselling love as an additional service.'
and love was sold,
on bad pricing policy, but to whom do we
file our complaints?
In this week's teardown, your dick looks
lonely,
without a price tag,
or an explanation.
Must dismantle love, kneecap its growth,
just a disease over succeeded.
Here's to the sacred deconstructionism
of love, your reverence.
Accept my offerings, the divine flaccidity
of cross-spiritual communication.
photo by: ffrind i'r sgrechian
The love altar (reconstructed)
A well-maintained structure, that is
your body
can be replaced with another grander structure, that is
your self-destruction.
I still long for your
cursed finger (do I?),
secret smiles softened under neon lights, squinted eyes submerging
a heritage of pain,
skin made from the death of thousands, and thousands of
mulberry silkworms,
scars weaved into prism-like wound dressing,
nose buried under the waves of my flesh-ocean.
Don’t you remember? The way we lie
next to each other, face pressing into face, breathing life
through each other’s breath.
May I confess
that I still miss you consummately.
Here’s the concept note for my exhibition:
‘Imagine yourself walking into the apartment of your dead ex-lover’
Go into that absolute darkness of omission,
please,
feel twice the absence.
Two billion newly-freed butterflies
shall:
(i) produce the blueprint for post-love emancipation;
(ii) advocate for the formation of a new epicene government;
with the patterns on their wings.
May I tell you that I am
pregnant
with those holy insects of reconstruction?
Will you let me wish on my false
eyelash?
I might wish you
rest in peace, in that apartment inside my head,
And I shall (cross my heart (hope to die))
pray to you and our bona fide miscarriage
on our love
altar.
