Molly Ophelia

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

On Cartesianism and Other Juicy Subjects

CW: mentions of death

Okay, Mr. Thinkable, go on. Touch the burning pot.

Or is that not quite proof enough?

What an interesting theory is hurt, you say,

how other say, it hurts.

[Mind over matter.] I say, all hurt is hurt.

There are no lesser matters.

“Therefore, I am,” yeah, stuck in this meat suit.

What, this mangled, hairy, old thing?

Oh, let it spill all over the floor,

Come on, make its time worth something.

Mortified breath justified in flesh—Oh!

Yes! Wretched, wretched clitoris!

Why do you not want to be animal?

Is not being animal enough?

Why flinch at the howl, the scent, the fur? (All the sexy stuff?)

You can go ascend toward Reason,

meanwhile, my body and I will be busy.

I’ll taste and touch and break

an orange for my lunch. Can’t we just share an orange?

But you’ve already dissected it, stripped it into parts

(see, you need fingers and lips)

for some ontological core, some final, stable

orange-ness

as though beneath (ruptured skin)

there lived a pure Form: the essence of Orange itself.

Either way, we’re both sticky and wet.

Et voilà, for you, desecrated, a painful/sexy antithesis

you’d have felt, you know, if you weren’t dead:

that if your body is dead

what remains of “I am” then?

Mind matters only when the mind is matter.

And you are not wrong because you’re dead, okay?

You’re just dead.

I didn’t actually care, I would have conceded the evidence to you, fine,

but only if you’d promised to taste it first before you died.